“There’s sixty-three frames in the basement,” Mom said, shocked, because who would have expected my ninety-one-year-old father to think he had enough time left to paint that many watercolors.

Apparently, he had hidden them under the sofa, behind the dresser, and squeezed between his Bob Hope albums. Though his dementia had kept him from remembering how to paint, he had continued to sit facing his easel. Trying to recall. His brushes had shed their hair. Yellowing paper sat in stacks. His tubes of paint had dried hard as steel. Everything decomposing along with his brain.

“Huh,” I said. Stalling. Every time she called with a new discovery of what my father had left behind, there was the painful thought that she was removing his presence from the house too quickly. While she was stacking up clothes, for example, she had told me she may as well bag them and deliver them to the needy. Would his art supplies be next?

“Sixty-three frames!” she repeated.

It used to be there in the basement that my father would create farms and ocean landscapes for everyone in the family. Daily he sat and painted for hours. Gave himself a meaning and purpose after retirement. At first, we tolerated his attempts, then we clamored to claim his better pieces. He was good.

But now the knowledge that he had collected so many frames was upsetting. Had he forgotten where he had stored all his previously purchased frames? Did he not recognize that his time was growing short? What had he been hoping for? To be healed? And before I had time to process all of this, would Mom discard this piece of him as well?

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Mom asked.

I was surprised by her response.

“Your father anticipated that he had more paintings in him that needed to get out and onto the canvas.”

A week later, she delivered the frames to the senior center, where his fellow classmates would fill them with something beautiful.

Yes, dementia had taken my father’s memory and language skills. But he had moments of clarity, enough to be optimistic that he had more days of creativity in him.

I shifted my perspective. My mother hadn’t been removing all signs of him. She had been helping his essence to live on in the beneficiaries of his stuff. 

In his spirit, I have taken up pastels in my retirement. As I struggle with redefining my purpose after a lifetime of raising a family and working, I too sit for hours and paint. So far, I’ve given one painting to my sister. I’m working on another, for Mom, to add to her living room wall of Dad’s watercolors.

About the Author:

Maria Warner is an author based in Arizona with one published book and additional featured short stories and articles. Her memoir focuses on themes of love, loss, and self-discovery. She is enjoying exploring her darker side in her flash publications. Maria also dabbles in creative nonfiction flash. In her free time, she enjoys being outside in the mountains and spending time with her family, friends, and adorable shih tsu’s. 

*Feature image by Annie Spratt on Unsplash