Tag Archives: mother

#TheSpoon

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spoon

“Guerilla Art” By Domenic Esposito, Fernando Luis Alvarez Gallery, Stamford CT

I save the bent and burnt spoons when I come upon them now. I never thought I would; but I do.

There was a point when I saw them and didn’t understand what was in front of me.

Then another point in time when I’d find them and burst into tears, much like I imagine Domenic Esposito’s mother must have done when she found yet another burnt spoon, throwing it in the garbage, quickly, like it was still scorching hot.

There aren’t many now, just two in the drawer, occasionally resurfacing from some mysterious hiding place. I let them swim freely in the utensil drawer; those two broken reminders of darker days, surprising me, reemerging without warning.

Domenic listened to his panic-stricken mother’s cries, his brothers tool of destruction found bent and burnt. He honored her and every mother who ever cried out in pain when they found yet another spoon or perhaps couldn’t find any, and for every person lost to heroin; the consequence of phenomenal greed and the heartlessness, when he created a ten and half-foot long, 800-pound steel tribute, in the shape of a spoon, and delivered it to the doorstep of Purdue, the golden egg of the Sacklers. The hundreds of thousands of dead, not enough of a reason for the Sacklers to come under the scrutiny of our criminal justice system, though blocking the driveway of the offices where this plague was born and refusing to move Domenic’s “guerilla art” is a felony.

I imagine this beautiful, painful piece of art is made of all of the spoons found by mothers like me, bent and burnt, tears and steel, melted together and calling out for justice for our children from its’ place on Purdue’s driveway.

They can’t relate, the Sacklers, their spoons are made of gold… and blood.

I save the bent and burnt spoons to remind me of where I have been although I can’t forget and to remain grateful for how far I have come, but also because they symbolize my vow to never forget that I have been spared to fight for justice for those no longer here, unable to fight for themselves.

Thank you Domenic Esposito and Fernando Luis Alvarez.

Strength in numbers!

Letting Go

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I resolve to take back the remnants of my life, and then it happens- in the shifting swiftness of everything, cyclone-like, pulling me into the center of the chaos without a chance to grasp on to myself- I plummet, head-first, all too often, into the lives of everyone, patching their open wounds with fragments of myself, oblivious that this is in fact my choice to wear their scars inside. I look for pieces of me, familiar things that I’d recognize to grab onto, like an amnesiac trying to recall who they are, but I remember only me in relation to them; so little of me anymore and so much of them. I promise that this is the last time and I brace myself against the next storm. Temporarily the whirling stops and for a moment, I forget that this is my life.

There’s an important difference between giving up and letting go.
–Jessica Hatchigan

Boys

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Making the decision to have a child is momentous.  It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.  ~Elizabeth Stone

Occasionally, I’m sure all parents think what it would be like to be free of responsibility. To be able to do as you please, eat without seeing if anyone else is hungry, turn ‘your’ music up loud and dance around the room without embarrassing anyone, or just be quiet and not answer a question for ten minutes. I’m sure all of that can’t compare to the feeling of your huge almost 17 year-old son walking up from behind you and in front of his friends, giving you a hug and saying, “love you Mom.” Then I remember why I spent all those years sleepless and changing diapers.

It was worth it.