I continue to struggle with having to place my dad in a nursing home and more so with his ever-increasing dementia. Painting seems to be an avenue to help me with my attempts to make make sense of it all. As I said, attempts!
Within each of us, there exists a personal cell ... perhaps, a personal hell. Cell or hell, it is there that we retreat ... it is there that we make our last stand. We enter via a long and circuitous path ... traversed at a slow meander ... or in a single step. We carry our cells with us at all times ... to be ready in an instant. Once inside, all that we are, or ever have been, gone.Loved ones search for us in vain. Their efforts yield no more than worn, battered shells, familiar only in their appearances. But, we are gone!
An instant ... a recognized name ... a fleeing peek through the bars ... maybe ... but, we are gone!
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