The Three Faces of Mary
|
I have always felt as if I needed to remember something. I am not exactly sure what it is, or why it is so, but I have always felt this way. I have lived with this sensation since I was a kid. I could describe this feeling as if I was a ghost of my memories. I know this because I recall a day where I was looking at myself in the mirror, and only being able to recognize my eyes. That was the day I learnt my face, and discovered I have big ears, and a dimple in my chin. I also liked the way mother did my hair. It was a bob style similar to hers. That day was a revelation. It felt as if I was taking on a new role. Did I whisper, “Remember”? Then again I was a kid with a vivid imagination.
|
Before I go on with my story, I want you to know that throughout the years, we lived in three unique houses. Each home was a door to my imagination. When we moved into our last house, I was nine years old. Rumors said it was built in an ancient indigenous graveyard. But today’s story is not about our last home, but the first one. However, each house was a board game of invisible doors and windows where I travelled, and wondered about the other me. In the meantime, my mother decorated each place according to her mood, the fashion of the moment, and ideas that came from her huge stacks of interior decoration magazines written in various languages. Our first house was an old style with tall ceilings, beautiful wooden doors, and walls that were color-washed by time and humidity. It was decorated with the modernity of the 60’s creating a particular contrast just like my mother’s mood. In that house my mother and I danced to the Beatles, I got lost in space with the Robinsons, felt bad for Wili E. Coyote, and started pre-K school. Also my father brought a puppy; not to be my pet, but to guard the house. According to my grandmother, as I saw the beautiful black puppy, I started to call him Congo. She told me years later that, they had no idea as to how I came up with such a strange name. What I do remember about Congo, is that he died very old. I was 17 years old at the time. Also, that they made him into a beast. Still, I loved him, and tried to play with him, at an age, I did not know any better… until he attacked the maid’s daughter. That day, I felt sad. Throughout the years, the story of his name lingered in my memories. Why did I call him Congo? If only I knew. In that house, it was the first time my parents travelled abroad for a few months. My grandmother stayed with us during that period. Her voice became my mother’s voice through her postcards. “Mother, keep an eye on Ethel.” “You know how she likes to wander around the house”. Did I like to wander around the house? I guess so! But mostly, I wandered with my imagination. Time passed not surely if slow, or fast enough when my mother and father were already opening suitcases filled with gifts. It was a joyful moment. Not because of the gifts but to see my parents again. Having them back was a relief.
Music was always part of my life. My mother played it all day long. She would listen to all kind of music. Sometimes, she would listen to Mona Lisa sang by Nat King Cole, over and over again, in days where it rained the most. She said that days like those were her favorite. In fact, she hated the sun. She hid from it with huge hats and sunglasses. I loved her hats as well as her shoes. I was happy to put on her shoes, in particular her yellow flat ones. It is amazing how I still remember her yellow shoes. Though, I was a young child at that time; I knew that none of her shoes made her happy. I think I became aware of her happiness one day when my mother whispered to my grandmother, “She killed herself”. I knew those words were tragic because of the long silence, and the sorrow of my grandmother’s “why”. I realized later that it was the mother of my friends. In their distraction, I went to my friends’ home. They took me to her room. We peaked through the door. It was dark. She was in her bed completely covered in a white sheet. I did not know how they were going to live without their mother.
I was so sad for my friends. I thought that our mothers had something in common. I felt anxious. That day, I became my mother’s guardian until the day I left to New York. I was 19 years old.
Years later, after listening to the lyrics of Mona Lisa, I realized why we both loved that song. Each of us had different reasons. She took refuge in her sad days. I did because it kept me awake to protect her from her fragile self. I was in my late 20’s, when one day I called my mother over the phone, and said to her, “Hello muse,” “I did a portrait of you!” “It is titled The Three Faces of Mary” “And guess what…” My mother interrupts me, “What style is it?” “Mix media”, I replied. “So you know what I did?” “I took that beautiful picture of you when you were in your early 20’s,” “that one with your white lace shirt”. “I copied it three times and water-colored in blue, yellow, and orange.” “Not red, because although you get angry, sometimes, it is still is not that kind of anger.” “Then I made a copy of Mona Lisa’s hand and placed them below your faces ” “Oh, and I wrote – My mother once told me..”- She changed the conversation. She asked me, “What was I going to make for dinner?” I replied, “I have to check out my huge stack of Bon Appetite.”
Music was always part of my life. My mother played it all day long. She would listen to all kind of music. Sometimes, she would listen to Mona Lisa sang by Nat King Cole, over and over again, in days where it rained the most. She said that days like those were her favorite. In fact, she hated the sun. She hid from it with huge hats and sunglasses. I loved her hats as well as her shoes. I was happy to put on her shoes, in particular her yellow flat ones. It is amazing how I still remember her yellow shoes. Though, I was a young child at that time; I knew that none of her shoes made her happy. I think I became aware of her happiness one day when my mother whispered to my grandmother, “She killed herself”. I knew those words were tragic because of the long silence, and the sorrow of my grandmother’s “why”. I realized later that it was the mother of my friends. In their distraction, I went to my friends’ home. They took me to her room. We peaked through the door. It was dark. She was in her bed completely covered in a white sheet. I did not know how they were going to live without their mother.
I was so sad for my friends. I thought that our mothers had something in common. I felt anxious. That day, I became my mother’s guardian until the day I left to New York. I was 19 years old.
Years later, after listening to the lyrics of Mona Lisa, I realized why we both loved that song. Each of us had different reasons. She took refuge in her sad days. I did because it kept me awake to protect her from her fragile self. I was in my late 20’s, when one day I called my mother over the phone, and said to her, “Hello muse,” “I did a portrait of you!” “It is titled The Three Faces of Mary” “And guess what…” My mother interrupts me, “What style is it?” “Mix media”, I replied. “So you know what I did?” “I took that beautiful picture of you when you were in your early 20’s,” “that one with your white lace shirt”. “I copied it three times and water-colored in blue, yellow, and orange.” “Not red, because although you get angry, sometimes, it is still is not that kind of anger.” “Then I made a copy of Mona Lisa’s hand and placed them below your faces ” “Oh, and I wrote – My mother once told me..”- She changed the conversation. She asked me, “What was I going to make for dinner?” I replied, “I have to check out my huge stack of Bon Appetite.”