The Remembering Tree

I remember when I first realized my mom was slipping away. At first, she tried to hide it—jokes to cover forgotten names, little laughs when she’d lose her place. But I saw it. I felt it. And I never forgot it.

Momma always loved flowers. She was always collecting little cuttings—borrowing a bulb from one neighbor, a stem from another. Some would take root. Some wouldn’t. Sometimes the lawn mower got them before they ever had a chance. But she never stopped planting. Never stopped hoping something beautiful would grow. Even when her memory began to fade, her love for flowers stayed. All the way to the bitter end.

People don’t always talk about what dementia really does—not just to the mind, but to the heart of a family. There comes a stage where they change. The sweetness slips. The kindness goes quiet. Sometimes it’s hard to remember the person they used to be. And so when it’s over, you find yourself in a long, complicated process of healing… and forgiveness.

But the truth is—it was Mom who made sure we stayed in fire churches. It was Mom who instilled undying faith in us. It was Mom who taught us how to endure. It was Mom who instilled in us a love of the arts. She didn’t just plant flowers—she planted us in beauty, in worship, in creativity. And even if she forgot, we remember.

The Remembering Tree is about her. About every mother who left more behind than we could see. About roots that run deep. About the kind of color that lingers, even when memory doesn’t. She would have been 88 this August 30. This painting is my gift to her legacy. You don’t just see it. You feel it.