One of my favorite memories is this:
My mother, sitting behind me in my makeshift studio.
Not instructing. Not correcting. Just watching.
Gloating over my colors like they were her own.
She would lean in and say, I hope you paint more often.
Because she loved what she called my “modern child” compositions.
Mother and child, fractured into light.
Held together by black lines, like prayers.
Stained glass without the church, until the church came to them.
And I listened.
In two years, I painted them again and again.
If you walk through the NICU at Henry Ford Hospital, you will find them there.
Mothers and children in blues and magentas and golds, watching over the smallest fighters.
If you pass through the YMCA, my long-term exhibit is still there.
More mothers. More children. As smart and as tender as they come.
While she was alive, I would tease her.
“Mama, I did a cartoon of you,” I would say.
And we would laugh.
She never needed to be painted to be seen. She was the seeing.
Mama was buried in May.
And instead of that day triggering sadness, it triggered joy.
Because I am inviting her again.
Mama, do you see?
I made a cartoon of you again.
And this one is going to church.
She loved when work was donated while she was still alive.
She believed art should belong to people, not to walls.
I know she would have loved this:
A story about her and me, given away in her memory.
A celebration of motherhood, told in color.
These two paintings are that story.
They are the answer to her request: Paint more often.
They are the laugh we shared.
They are the joy that came in May.
So if your mother is still alive, cherish her.
Love her.
Write her a poem as colorful as these paintings.
Or simply be colorful to her.
Be present. Be bright. Be a tribute.
Show her great honor.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.
Your colors are still here.
Your cartoon made it to church.
And your son is still painting.
~ Timothy Orikri
