In August of 2021 my grandmother lost her life to a sudden diagnosis of late stage lung cancer. 83 years on this planet and decades of devotion to God lead her to an acceptance of fate and an anticipation of meeting her Lord and savior. Her passing brought my family together in a way that I had not experienced since childhood. My entire immediate family, cousins, aunts & uncles; all gathered in her home at once. The walls littered with Bible verses, crosses, and photos of the family dating much further back than my own life. The shelves play host to ceramic angel figurines sitting on church benches with their hands in praying positions. The night before her funeral we gathered around the kitchen table. We ate the abundance of food so generously provided by her parishioners and neighbors - homemade dishes and catered Chick-fil-a to ease the pain. As I finished what was likely my 3rd plate of food I looked up and was filled with an overwhelming sense of familiarity and warmth that made my eyes well up instantly. Everything about that moment felt right.

The spirit of my grandmother in the room, my favorite aunt combing the hair of my mother, an estranged uncle, and my father all within inches of each other. It was all very surreal. While I wanted to bask in the moment, it felt like the perfect time to grab a few candid shots - the conversation carrying on, the hair-styling still taking place, and the food growing cold on the table. Perfection. That warm fuzzy feeling felt like the dawn of a new day, like a promise that we were healing, and that everything was going to be okay.

You can imagine our shock when the following October brought the sudden illness and death of my estranged uncle. We were not close, I’m not sure that he was close with any of us. He had taken a long ride to Kentucky from California to be present for his deceased mothers funeral, and that was the first time I got to experience him in nearly twenty years. I did not have a personal connection to him except for the reminders that he was the original artist of the family and that somehow I must have taken after him. Somehow. Perhaps the connection we shared was the collective familial misunderstanding and overwhelming desire to run away to a new State, and maybe we were both feeling like prodigal children that day.

To have my mother there in that space and time was a gift like no other. For two years she had been living in a care facility in my hometown, and the logistics of transporting her from one place to another were daunting. Her bags were packed and she was driven across the highway to be in this space with the rest of her family. Me, my sisters and aunt worked to get her in pristine condition for the next day's funeral. We trimmed her nails, scrubbed her face, dressed her up, and styled her hair. It took all of us to make it work, and we did it. She sat in her wheelchair pulled up to the table and scoffed at our silly remarks, her face letting us all know that she was often unamused - bringing up family lore and retelling the stories that we all know by heart. The same inflection, plot, and finale. Just like old times. My mother who just lost hers was sandwiched between her big brother, “little sister”, and husband of 40 years - I wonder if she too felt what I was feeling. 

My auntie Angelia was my mom’s best friend. They met at a church bible study and the rest is history. She knew my mother before sickness plagued her and remained present for decades after Multiple Sclerosis ravaged her mind and body. Auntie Angelia represented the purest form of love and friendship in my moms life as she combed her hair at the kitchen table. Their shared deep faith in God acted as the glue that held us all together. My auntie was present as a daughter to my grandmother and sister to my mother, a clear example of what it meant to be family. All of these relationships existed around the kitchen table where my grandmother prayed for our safe travels and salvation.

In December of 2021 my mother became ill and was hospitalized. The trauma of losing family members back to back lay fresh in my mind, and so I began this painting. I wanted so badly to be transported back to that table with all of that nostalgia and warmth. I didn’t want to think about the potential of my mothers fate. Those Photos taken at the table were raw, and that’s what I wanted - the memory as it was real. In early February I traveled from Arizona to Illinois with the understanding that this might be the last time I experience my mother alive. Under the care of hospice she lay cozy in her bed - not speaking, not eating, taking frequent naps with the t.v on. I waved my phone screen in front of her face saying “look! I painted you!” no response. I melted into uncontrollable sobbing, hyperventilating as my heart spilled out of me. I apologized for moving away, for not being present, and I promised her that if I could have changed anything I would have changed everything. Two weeks later she was gone.

Often my mother would express that she wanted to be in heaven with her older sister, father, and finally her mother. Everyday I shake my fist at the sky and bathe in anger that if there is a God he might not let someone get sick in the first place, or maybe he would heal them as they beg for relief, and maybe if God is real he would be less cruel and more clear.

And maybe if there is a God, maybe, my mom made it to heaven and she’s once again sitting at the kitchen table. 

[In memory of Yvonne Bell, Rodney Bell, and Paula Wilson]