the evening after

My work place on the evening of the day before my mother's birthday. I have just short of a dozen grid drawings made over the course of the past week. They are difficult to photograph; it is easier to show them thus, perhaps scanning them directly into the computer would be the ideal. Each drawing takes around two or three hours to make, and involves intense concentration and effort. If I have one or two drawings at the close of each day, I am delighted. Sometimes, on a good day, I achieve three. After each couple of drawings, I re sharpen my pencils; a deeply satisfying ritual, and then set aside time to appraise my work. I keep the finished drawings in the top drawer of our plan chest in the back bedroom of our rented house, where I have an old Lloyd Loom chair in which I sit, the chest drawer open,  so that I can look upon the work accumulated  during the course of the past days.

This particular evening is warm and windy, the wind chime sounding with vigour from our neighbour's garden. I can hear, as I have been able to all week, the sound of the bees busy at the blossoms on the shrub just outside the open window.

It is difficult to explain to my mother just why we shall be unable to visit her on her birthday and spend the day with her; she does not understand the notion of 'social distancing'. There is pain in my heart, as I should like to be with her, to sit in the beautiful garden together. As it is, I try to persuade her that her birthday is to be postponed, not cancelled, or not celebrated, but just put back for a while, until restrictions are lifted. I may as well attempt to convince a three year old. Part of my mother's undoubted charm are her child like enthusiasms and candour, but in this instance her tendency toward child like behaviour is robbing her of the capacity to cultivate patience and thereby attain something approaching peace of mind.