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The Terror and Treasure of Walking a Mile in My Mother’s Shoes
By Claudia S. Gold
Entering my mom’s apartment off of Pico in West LA is a reminder to breathe deeply. It takes me back into my childhood, to see the oil painting on the wall of my mother posing in a black dress, ornamented at the top, carrying a clay jug on her shoulder, portraying Rachel at the well.
The white walls are now more like a museum. My eyes scan a painting by Raphael Abecassis, its Jewish symbols calling through exuberantly colored, startling supernatural images. On the other wall, behind the familiar dining room table, covered in white table cloth embroidered in gold, is the needlepoint by my successful sister Dodie. By the couch, there is a large book of prints by Russian painter and stained glass artist Marc Chagall, and the silver plant-holder on the side table that used to hold the fly-catching plant that intrigued me when I was three.
There are photos in frames on tables everywhere and on the refrigerator of the observant children and grandchildren. She shows me there is a photo of me — when I graduated high…
