Four weeks ago my dear mother Barbara Walker left us. The photo above was taken in 2008, before dementia took over. Although she did knit, she wasn’t the Barbara Walker of stitch dictionary fame. Instead, her artistic medium of choice was clay. She took a pottery class when I, the youngest of her four children, started first grade. By the time I was 10, she taught for the local potter’s guild. By the time I was 16, she co-founded an art cooperative called the Lodestone Gallery here in Boulder, Colorado. By the time I had children of my own, she was an accomplished sculpture.
I photographed my Park City Cowl on one of her spectacular pieces.
A few days before she died, I held her fragile fist in my palm. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t coax her fingers open. I so wanted a photo of us holding hands. Instead, I got a tender shot of my hand supporting hers. Poetic proof that life is, indeed, a circle.
Shortly after she died, some dear friends send me a pair of miniature brass hands in recognition of Mom’s talents as a sculptor, and to commemorate the photo above.
These tiny hands rest on my desk where I can see them whenever I type. I rearrange them daily and don’t mind that tears of loss that well up in eyes when I look at them.
For decades, people have told me that I look like my mother. I didn’t care much for the comparison when I was in my teens, but now I take it as a lovely compliment.
Please take a few minutes to give your own mother some love. If not for yourself, do it for those of us who are unable to do it anymore.