My Mother’s Hands

An ongoing collection of images, words, recordings, collage.

I left home when I was 13 to go to boarding school and did not return until the age of 33 when I moved home to care for my mother in the advanced stages of Multiple Sclerosis.  

Our relationship has been one of loss, love, miscommunication, defiance, and sometimes anger. I am who I am because of our shared story and there is work to be done, so I do it.

I have come home to care for mum not simply because of love or duty, but as an act of devotion to a woman that did her best with what she knew.

Whilst caring for her I have been unboxing and sorting through years of stored items from my grandparents home. I’ve been exorcising the ghosts of my mother line. Family Lore. Mother Mary (a mug, a painting, a pendant, a plate) found in almost every box. Italian newspapers, the custard jug, the good Noritake dishware we only used at Christmas and the crystal that was polished every other Friday. Someone boxed up the linen, even the shit stuff. The dishrags too. Salt over the left the shoulder. Stories hidden under long workdays, tidy homes, immaculate cooking, big busts and a hallmark card for every occasion.

But all the women in my mother line have died young.