Sunday, August 30, 2009

Pictures Colored With Crayon

As you descended the stairway to the basement, you were surrounded by a gallery of art ranging from the simplest scratched lines of a toddler to the neatly colored pages of an older child. Even teens would enjoy a step back in time to color another page for the gallery they had visited in younger years. Each page was a treasure to her. No piece was ever tossed away. Eventually, each found its way into her coloring notebooks. Saved for the child? I think not. I believe they were treasures from these children she loved. She understood that even a simple line was an effort to be recognized.

He stood alone at her casket with his arms at his sides. Connor was the youngest great grandchild before Sydney joined the pack. I knelt down to comfort him and saw the tears streaming down his face, dripping from his chin. I hugged him a moment before he disappeared into the “family” room where he stayed most of the day. It was almost time to leave when I walked to the casket one more time. There atop the soft, cream coverlet laid a picture Connor had spent the day drawing for Grandma. Following his example, each of the great grandchildren lovingly drew a picture to accompany Mom on her journey. Sydney’s consisted of a few scribbled lines and her handprint, a baby’s signature.

My mother knew that even the simplest effort deserves recognition. Be it large or small, success of failure, between the lines of freestyle, it is worth praise.

We are a variety of people who dress differently, who think differently, who have different histories. We are each unique yet reside in the same notebook.

I looked at the flowers surrounding my mother and thought, “They should all have been pictures colored with crayon.”

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