In the summer of 2006, my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I would go down to her house in the country to keep her company and to make sure she ate during chemo. After challenging her that each of us would eat a pint of strawberry cheesecake ice cream, I vowed to never touch it again, and she threw hers up in the yard. The house had no creature comfort of air conditioning, but fortunately it was cool at night with the assistance of an attic fan. It was dark, and I enjoyed being able to see the stars for a change.
We’d lie around and talk about her dying as if it wasn’t a real possibility. She was going to go haunt the produce section of the Walmart she had worked in. I joked that she could send messages from beyond but absolutely there should be no rattling of chains. I noticed as each time I visited her clothes hung looser on her frame.
Back at my apartment in Chattanooga I had the spookiest, nastiest pantry closet in my kitchen. They had just put in central AC there, and I was trying to clean up the disaster of ductwork being installed in a 1908 apartment. One Saturday I decided to paint the pantry bright white. The more the reality of my mom’s illness set in, the sloppier my paint job got. Just the act of painting everything white seemed to help me deal with the thoughts of what was eventually coming. I painted every surface of it and then carefully loaded it up in a way that was much too curated for a pantry.
For Halloween I had a Zombies and Ghosts party, and I thought it might be inappropriate. She found it funny.
We spent our last Thanksgiving together in that apartment, and then she invited me down for Christmas. I still have the email she sent telling me everything she was making and to just bring myself. This was a woman that made Stovetop Stuffing for holidays, so I thought it was odd. She told me the treatments were working. I let my guard down.
In January I went on a work trip to Germany. In February I got the call from my brother that she was not doing well, and I should come. I spent the month of February going back and forth to Georgia thinking every weekend would be the last, and then it was the last. She passed at 12 something am on the 27th, 2007.
Eleven years later, I had just finished teaching a weaving class, and I was left with my little weaving I had made during the class. I rarely keep these, as they are usually not worth keeping, however they are great for experimenting, and I love a good experiment. I had some white paint left from painting my studio walls, so I thought I’d go for it. I poured the paint into a pan and began to dip the weaving into it until it was completely encased in white and hung it up to dry. It took me back to that summer when it felt like my world was falling apart. Time froze under thick white latex.
