What to do with Mother on Mothering Sunday?

I am, I confess, a narcissist. Not a rip-roaring one, you understand. Just the kind who presses the delete button when she sees one chin too many, or her lardy thighs dominating the frame. So really, no more vain than mother and grandmother before her, who would have been quick to whip away an offending photograph and tear it up instantly. Early conditioning dictates you destroy the evidence of images that fail to match up with your sense of self.

When my mother died, I came across a portrait done by some sodden artist my dad had met at The Swan. It was one of four that he'd drawn of our family in 1975. The likeness he'd achieved of me and my father was bang on the button. My younger brother quite liked his: probably because he felt it gave him a slightly haunted, Rupert Brooke look. Not true on either count, for the record.  The one of my mother, whilst capturing her colouring and her general mien, made her look far too haughty. And although she was more than capable of a withering glance that could freeze you at fifty yards, she didn't really look like this. So it was slung on top of the wardrobe; the others were on display.

From sentiment, I have kept it on top of that same wardrobe that I subsequently acquired. There it remained, until the Big Clear Out. 

Now, a portrait is not the same as a photograph. It is somehow more personal. Imbued with a sense of family history.  Yet this one  bears false witness to reality. 

I couldn't give it away to the charity shop; I could not destroy it (despite my mother's voice, egging me on). And frankly, why would any member of the family want a defective portrait? 

Then I had this wonderful, crazy idea. I know the people who bought my mother's house. I could ask them to put it in the attic. I could write a note on the back explaining why it was there. If they moved, it could be left there, as part of the house's history (which my parents bought new in 1967).

Now what to write?

"On Mothering Sunday 2017 my daughter has decided  I am to reside evermore in the attic."

Not really. 

When I prefaced a recent conversation with Dearest, with,

"I've had this possibly mad idea.."

I could see him visibly bracing himself. Most of my mad ideas are generally attached to a lot of noughts. This would cost nothing. He smiled and said he thought it was a strange but lovely idea. 

I like to think my mother would have approved. 

"Every day should be Mother's day" GJE