The armchair - mother
Mother in her armchair, a few years before she passed away, immobilized in her throne, covered with flower motives. A deep seat with wide arms and two soft cushions. Yellow sunflowers scattered around emerging out of dark foliage, a bit like a garden. After many years of distance, the armchair becomes a place of encounter and of acceptance. A transitional place and time before the final separation. It is also the place of reception. In the living room that still preserves what is left of a life-time, of objects, furniture, photographs, paintings, memories. As the centre of all, the armchair close to the window. A bit of light comes in illuminating the round table in front of her. The small ashtrays, the cigarette box, the silver tray with the colorful rosaries, a few photographs of young children, the television remote control. Mother gradually sinks, and becomes smaller year after year, lost almost amidst the sunflowers and the shady foliage. I sit on the side, on the sofa underneath the large horse painting. The sofa often swallows me. Sometimes gently, dreamily, and sometimes fiercely, cruelly. Truths and lies are suspended on the air between us. The armchair remains silent and dark. Sometimes I lay on the sofa, turning it into a bed, and I even curl up, like a small child. Then quiet takes over. The light from the window that looks out towards the big airshaft becomes stronger. Mother becomes a shadow, maybe I drift off to sleep for a little while. The Armchair-Mother becomes a dark mass across the light. I look at it and slowly shut my eyes.
Lizzie Calligas July 2016 Spetses