Outside the back of my studio is a small bistro chair and table. It is where I used to sit in the morning and have coffee, chatting with my mother - at least three to four times a week. We talked about mundane things like weather, politics or how to fix a spot in a white shirt. We laughed a lot. Sometimes got a bit catty. Sometimes there was nothing going on, we just felt like taking a break from the day and calling one another.
More than anything, I miss those chats. I only got to see my mother twice a year due to logistics of the farm and financial restraint. It was impossible for her to travel those last few years. So our chats were our time together.
The last time I sat in that chair and had a talk with her was the morning she went into the hospital. We had a routine, mundane chat. We thought it was just another little visit to have blood work. No drama. My mother hated drama. But she was dead 48 hours later.
The day after my mother died, I looked out on the beautiful world and saw my little chair and table. I sat down, but cold not stay there. I look out at them now - like abandoned friends of the past. I want to reach out and sit with them and have it be like it was. But it can't be, so I won't sit there. It's been 4 months and I think more than any other place, it is where the rawest sadness still resides.
