I lost my mom as a kid and I’ve moved on with my life as much as one can. The thing that gets me as an adult about it though is that I never got to talk to her as an adult.
I’ve learned from secondhand sources that my mom was weird as heck but I never got to know that side of her.
After going through her artwork I think I can see where I got some of my weirdness from. Her visual art has like a similar vibe to my writing. I’m a writer and she was a visual artist but our bodies of work feel like they could be friends if that makes sense.
Like it’s funny and serious at the same time. It’s weird and shy. I never got to talk to her about it. As an adult, as a fellow creative, as an equal. And I never will. Not in this lifetime, anyways.
If there is an afterlife I’m gonna have a lot of questions for her about her weird ass sculptures when I get there. And she’s also probably gonna be really annoyed at my new cussing habit.
