The lamp swings like a pendulum, pictures sway on their nails
Then slip down the walls, leaving scratched trails
Amidst the quake, the grief, the confusion and scare
Slowly ascending is my father's armchair
And beyond all these outlines of what I see there
Beyond the sofa, the knickknacks, the old furniture
Light pours in, and it paints something new
It reveals, it unveils at this moment a clue
The clue to a presence only he could once see
A presence he longed for, because only she
Could call him back home, and envelop him so
Touching-not-touching, her hands all aglow
These pages, upon which he'll never scribble a line
Are floating from the shadows, into the shine
Only she can now read the blanks, she and no other
He's ascending into the hands of his muse, his mother.
Here is a detail from the top center of my oil painting, My Father's Armchair, and a detail from its bottom. These details are also visible on the cover of my new book, Home.
While everyone notices the hands at the bottom, few discover the subtle appearance of the face at the top, because it exists in a different layer than reality, hinting at the presence of a muse...
"Not only does the author take the reader into a wonderful world where words are like music, ebbing and flowing with a rhythm that is captivating and beautiful, but she also gives life to her father's writings"