I just came across an ashtray I made in school at Christmastime for my mother. I remember the making of it so well. The shape of it, the thing of it was all for her. She was an aloof, beautiful, untouchable woman. She had Admirers, she had furs and massages and ointments and so many occasions for her display. She read far into the night and smoked.
My gift to her was a small heart-shaped ashtray with a rose in the center. On the back it is signed, “PAM 1952” the art teacher would have had us do that. I remember giving it to her with some trepidation. Would she like it? Would she put it down without noticing? Would I find it in a drawer years later?
But those are my adult thoughts. At the time I just wanted her to like it and love me. Notice me, smile at me. That’s the part I don’t remember now. Did she smile? I don’t know. But she kept it by her bedside until she died in 1993. Her cigarette ashes are part of it now – oh yes, I have it now. I put it in a drawer, and found it when looking for something else. I think it’s time for the love to come out. I placed it with other endowed objects where it has a life of inclusion. Something I am just beginning to live with myself.