we are the same age

I've been painting a portrait of my mother in my head for the past few weeks. I'm dissecting every line, every mark, and every color before I put the finished piece into the physical realm. Most of my art making has been in my head lately. A lot of portraits, with thick strokes of unnamed hues. The portrait of my mother only sort of looks like her but it's her. Like in dreams, when the characters don't necessarily match familair faces, yet you know who they are. It's their essence.

my mother and I are the same age. I've always known this, even when I was young, that we were both humans, with the same age, just born at different times. She happened to come first. And then me. but we've always been equals. I wouldn't have known it, I would have forgotten, but she reminded me. She gave me a voice and an equal ear and because of that we are friends. for the most part, she is the better friend. circumstance allows that. but she also allows it, to be constantly aware of me. She is usually the shoulder that is cried on. But I've had those rare chances to be that shoulder for her and it has helped remind me again, that we are the same.

I think for the larger portion of my life I've been trying to find a me outside of everyone else, when in fact the me worth finding is in others.

Happy belated birthday, Mom.


  1. your words are beautiful.


  2. This brought tears to my eyes. I wish there were a way to type that in a less corny tone.

    1. Have we met? Were we sisters in another world? Must have been. Your blog is so lovely!