Pedestal

It is time for me to think of my mother as human. For ten years I have miniaturized her into a precious, red-lipped porcelain doll and sat her gleaming down to the world on the highest shelf. She has sat there angelic and still in her floral dress and satin gloves, a fresh flowered lei hanging egg-shaped from her ceramic neck. I have replaced the lei every week, refusing to let the blooms wrinkle and brown, become stiff with age and lack of care. She has become the paragon of human life, of motherhood, of martyrdom. She can do no wrong sitting calm and scented on her shelf.
For ten years, since her death, this is where she has been, where I have placed her in my adult life. It is time now, as much as I fear it, to use my hollowed hands and bring her down.

To be continued...