| Any comments, suggestions or questions can be directed to the author. Thank you for taking the time to read and I hope you found something that you could enjoy. Disclaimer: I do not own anything in relation to C.S.I., Alliance Atlantic, CBS, William Petersen, Jorja Fox or any other characters contained herein... I just like playing with them now and then while stretching my writing muscles. And if you think there's any money to be gained by suing me, you're in for a horrible disappointment. |
| Check out All the Author's Works in Progress at FanFiction.net |
| LIKE IT WAS YESTERDAY |
| The One Always at the Center |
| I should mention again how much I HATE cut-out art, but seeing as my father loves anything that I've ever done with pictures of my mother, I suppose I should not include this one in that category. This was another assignment for a class, but this time I tried to have a little fun with it. Using a picture of my mother is always a daunting task, because I really don't think pictures can ever do her justice. Not that she isn't photogenic, because damn the woman takes great pictures. But you just can't capture everything that my mother is in a photo, or even a painting. Believe me, I've tried. She's just that good. My father loves this painting, and once again Mom only ends up with a print of it. The original is hanging in my father's office at the hospital. This work is a testament, not to my talent as an artist, but to the amazing love and devotion of one woman to her family, at all costs. The day before this picture was taken, my mother had lost her last child. I was just barely nine years old, and it was just another day around the house for me. Mom had stayed home from work that day, because she came home the day before "not feeling well." I was just getting over my latest bout of bronchitis, and Mom refused to let me go to school when I was hacking, so I was on home-school duty that week with Uncle Gil. When he dropped me off at the house, he told me to make sure I did all my homework and to call him right away if Mom was still under the weather. I was nine, and I was pretty sure I could handle anything that needed handling all on my own, but I promised Uncle Gil anyway. When I walked into the house, it was oddly quiet. I finally found Mom out back, sitting in a patio chair in her big sweater and jeans with her hair down. That was Mom's staying home uniform in the winter. In the summer it was jeans and tank tops, and the other times of the year it was jeans and jerseys. Mom was always a simple dresser at home. She said it was hard to dress up at home when she basically wore pajamas for a living as a coroner, except on court days. As soon as I opened the patio door, it felt like I was intruding on Mom's quiet time, so I quickly closed it again. Instead, I went into the kitchen and heated up a bowl of water to pour into the two mugs of cocoa I set up while the microwave did its thing. With the nervous gait of an awkward nine year old asthmatic, I made my way out to the patio with the two mugs of cocoa. The moment she saw me, her face changed from the quiet, solemn picture I first found, and she struggled to smile for me. We drank our cocoa, as Mom asked me about my lessons with Uncle Gil. And before long, Mom seemed to slip back into her same old self. After we finished the cocoa, Mom said I should get in the house before the chill in the air kicked up my bronchitis again. She smiled when I reminded her about the same thing, since the asthma was something we shared. But when I got to the patio door again, I sensed that her mood had gone back to the darkness. My camera was just inside the door, so I set the mugs down and grabbed it. I turned back to her and called out to get her attention. She gracefully turned on the chair and looked over the back of it at me to smile. Pain and horrible loss, but Mom still had a smile for her favorite problem child. |
