When I read a book about the âsix centuries of paintingâ from my motherâs shelves, itâs not unusual to come across a gap in the text. A paragraph, or maybe just a sentence, has been sliced out, leaving a window in its place, with words from the next page peeping through. The chopped up page looks like a nearly complete jigsaw puzzle waiting for its missing piece. But the piece isnât lost, and I always know where to find it. Dozens of quotations, clipped from newspapers, magazinesâand booksâplaster one wall of my motherâs kitchen. What means the most to my mother in her books she excises and displays.
Iâve never told her, but those literary amputations appall me. I know Ann Patchett, Dorothy Sayers, and W. Somerset Maugham would fume alongside me; their careful prose severed from its rightful place. She picks extracts that startle me, too: âPut your worst foot forward, because then if people can still stand you, you can be yourself.â Sometimes I stand reading the wall of quotations, holding a scissors-victim novel in my hand, puzzling over what draws my mother to these particular words.
My own quotation collection is more hidden and delicate. I copy favourite lines into a spiral-bound journalâ a Christmas present from my mother, actuallyâin soft, gray No. 2 pencil. This means my books remain whole. The labour required makes selection a cutthroat process: do I really love these two pages of Crime And Punishment enough to transcribe them, word by finger-cramping word? (The answer was yes, the pages were that exquisite.)
My mother doesnât know any of this. She doesnât know I prefer copying out to cutting out. Iâve never told her that I compile quotations at all. Thereâs nothing very shocking about that; for all our chatting, we donât have the words to begin certain conversations with. My mother and I talk on the phone at least once a month, and in some ways, we are each otherâs most dedicated listener. She tells me about teaching at an Elementary school in my fatherâs hometown and teaching English to some High School students at the library where she volunteers; I tell her about job applications, cover letters, and the manuscripts Iâm always working on. We talk about my siblings, her siblings, the president, and Philip Seymour Hoffman movies. We make each other laugh so hard that I choke and she cries. But what we donât say could fill up roomsâ fights with my father, our relationship, my life, my decisions, my choices, meâ anything, really, that pierces us.
I guess I just miss her now. And I guess thatâs possible even without any reason at all.
That kitchen wall... that wall filled with all her cut-outs and favourite quotes, is gone now.
Becos you see, lately, we moved. So that kitchen - that wall, particularly - was left together with your room.
Maybe she'll start new again. Not to mention that our new kitchen has wider walls. So... :))
Haha, you miss her. Rest assured I'll tell her that. :P
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