She gave me her fan collection, all at once, much like how she gave me her attention. Mom’s love opened and closed in measured proportions. It was opened wide to view the blue and red hand painted Mexican flowers on black cloth, or, closed showing only fine black lace peeking out of the top, bunched up tighter than stifled emotions. There was no in between. Mom’s love open and shut according to her moods.
There are ten fans in all, collected from foreign countries during her travels with my father. The fans together are an international array of color and culture. The fan from Japan shows a woman tentatively holding a black cat. Her yellow and green kimono drapes over worn luggage, and her ebony hair pinned up with two wooden sticks. Our relationship is a fan collection. When open it is authentic, an exchange of stories from the heart. Still other times the fans are closed. Then, a great distance lies between us, like the faraway places of the fans’ origins. From a wide span, when open, the fans entice with a stunning display of glittery scenes. Castles and palm trees in Spain finished with a gilded edge and white lace. Get too close and you see the lace is tattered and some paper edges are torn. I keep the fan collection at a distance to hide the imperfections. Now, I can open and close the fans according to my moods.
Published in Literary Oprhans and Cincinnati Express