To Mary in the Morning - Quite Contrary - with Love
It always takes me a day. At the very least. To get my mother-moorings straight, secured. Too many bad flower bouquets and brunches. That’s not my Mary in the Morning. Not by a long shot. And hold those pastels.
A strange bird, you can say that for her. Not at all like the little red ones perched at the feeder, or the industrious chickadees, hustling for a meal, all the day long. Maybe a magpie, she always had a soft spot for them, shared that inability to resist the baubles – how else to fill her perfect wooden jewelry box. My dad told her that he filched it off the desk of a General when he was feeding released POWs in Hong Kong.
Oh, the things he saw. But he really just saw Mary.
It was hard not to look, such a showy one. When you had afternoon tea with her you’d think – well – maybe more of an exotic predator, all coloured combs and plumes, sharp beaked – a keen eye that missed nothing, claws that dug in and wouldn’t let go.
But then, as the moon etched itself up along the skyline, pale and trembling in the evening’s chill, there she was, suddenly small, nervous - and her bones, as she rested in the palm of my hand, were so tiny that I am sure I could crush her, just crumple her up in my fist.
But that was a passing fancy, a delusion.
Because Mary belonged to the sun, not the moon or the stars. Just the big orange sun.
So I dare you, look closer, see the fine detail, the questioning tilt of her head, the thousand shades of abstract in her mind. Yes, up close, you can see what a rare bird she was.
Hail to all the Mary’s out there who refuse to be pigeon-holed!
Thank you. This touches me. My own mother was also an adventurous artist and, yes, a rare bird …. And we love birds