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I was brought to my knees when my mother died in 2022. We knew it was coming. Dementia had slowly, cruelly and methodically taken her away from us.

A stroke was her final stage. In an intensive care unit, water and food were withheld. There was no hope. Even then my mother battled for life, living days longer than was expected. 

With her determination and strong will she fought every inch that dementia was taking from her. The most painful moments came as she sobbed inconsolable, seemingly out of the blue. Her fragmented mind and body brought her to tears. I also think that she knew what she was losing. I sobbed beside her. 

In my sorrow, I painted chaos. Swirling in a void, colors danced out of rhythm. I found solace, as I could still see shadows of my mothers’ colors.

I felt as if my heart was torn from my chest. I turned to a canvas shape I had never explored. Circles of canvas split apart. This shape resonated with me in my broken heart.

To my utter surprise, I did not paint shadow. I found connection in my heart. Our stories were still there. The stories my mother had never been able to face were also there. Yet somehow in painting, we found resolution. We are one but apart.

Art transmutes us.

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