My mother in this place

My mother in this place rests in the dabs and strokes of her Three Volcano painting. Rescued from oblivion and an evil stepfather who tried to drown the very idea of her. I cleaned it with moistened cotton swabs, gently washing tobacco smoke and dust decades old. My mother in this place drips red and orange paints, the angry lava she had never seen down the slopes of one of these three mysterious volcanoes. And I know she dreamed of this future where the morning sun rises over Mauna Kea, the Snowy Mountain, Mauna Loa, the Long Mountain and Hualalai, the Jagged Mountain – all three dangerously dormant. Tera, my mother, saw this 70 years ago and dreamed it into being.

Tera Niedbalski Benjamin Tripp Treadaway's 3 volcano painting

My mother in this place IS the dragonfly. Fierce and fragile and sometimes airborne by the sheer lightness of the breaths she took between peals of laughter. She was never prideful of her own work, yet always in attendance for her daughter’s honors and accomplishments. She self titled Empress of the Universe. I self title Writer and hope the dragonfly conveys that message. These ten years later, I still say “Hi Mom” to each dragonfly and dream that Tera comes in on gossamer wings in attendance even still for her daughter’s honors and accomplishments.

Published by Ms. C. G. Tripp

Catherine G. Tripp, Writer/Investor a lifelong mix. Left brain and right brain battle for dominance. I wrote the marketing materials for my mortgage brokerage, had a personal finance column at Examiner.com, wrote essays, short stories and poems published in school papers and magazines then literary journals. If my writings were a color, they would be yellow, bright as sunlight, highlighting the salient portions, not obscuring the past but deconstructing air brushed stories, finding humor and courage in the unloved corners.

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