A restlessness began to stir within me that winter. I began to change as the leaves did, feeling myself unraveling from my tight-knit family.
If the Church was true, God would not answer my prayer. The only comfort I had was in knowing that God’s will was not always done.
Mother had Church now, Caitlin, her piano & dance, David, his art & professorship, but I had always been content with just enjoying life.
Once upon a time, Mother played the piano, but now she played the strings of our that held us up like marionettes.
David had painted Mother, but her pale, oval face was shrouded by her hair, cloaked in dark mystery, for he’d loved her from afar.
Long, luxurious dark hair fell not in waves, but in ripples, just as I imagined the notes that flowed from her fingers.
My mother had gone by Annie McCarrick then—a blue-collar girl from a Catholic family. She was now Laurie Nolan—a Southern Audrey Hepburn.
Mother had many forms—the one I’d known & the one only she knew. I’d loved the one who’d never existed.
He was still staring at the picture, or rather past it, and I knew that’s where his thoughts were—in the past he rarely shared with us.