My mother died, in my arms, on this date 9 years ago.

Paperdolls & Cowboy Boots started and ended with her Paper Doll

As I stood on the steps of the chapel watching the pall bearers load my mother's casket into the hearse, I felt her. I knew that she would always be with me. In my heart. Before we closed her casket I placed her Paper Doll, the one my grandmother made for her, near her heart.

I started Paperdolls and Cowboy Boots with this journal entry:

A TEAR COULD HAVE WASHED her away. In the attic, underneath layers of dust, I found her. I carefully brushed the dirt from her face. She was watercolored by my grand-mother’s hand, evidently for my mother when she was a little girl. The floor creaked as I walked past some tarnished brass. I took her away from the dark attic. Only then could I see her beauty.

An antique paper doll, salvaged from a hundred-year-old home. Her hair is blond and her eyes hazel—like my mother’s. Like mine. I am a 32-year-old woman now living in the home where my mother was raised. I am as old as my mother was when she bore me. I wonder, if my mother had kept this doll, would things have been different for her?

I’ll keep her. My life is different. She’s fragile, mere paper and watercolors. Forgotten in a dusty attic for decades. I am going to display her, protected, under glass. I want to display her resilience. Somewhere where I can always see her. To remind me to never forget.

My 2nd therapist did her doctorate thesis on the complex relationship between mothers and daughters. It was her belief that the mother-daughter relationship was one of the most complex and rich relationships in the human experience.¹ I felt that with my mother.

Forgiving my mother was hard. Taking care of her as she transitioned from this life was exhausting, difficult and miraculous.

We were both open enough to experience profound healing and peace.

She said my name, twice, before she took her last breath.

My mother died, in my arms, on this date 9 years ago.

I ended the book with my depiction of returning her Paper Doll to her, forever.

"I approached the casket. I held my grandmother’s paper doll. I removed my mother’s glasses and gently covered her head and face. Then, I carefully placed the paper doll in my mother’s casket, next to her heart. I slowly reached up and brought the lid of the casket down."

1. I recently read Laura Davis's book, The Burning Light of Two Stars. Laura Davis had similar dynamics with her mother that I had, particularly with a mother refusing to deal with the pain her daughter endured. Laura also experienced vastly different interactions with her mother. My mother was reserved and retreated in her pain. My mother's mind was sharp even as her body failed. Laura's mother was an extrovert, a performing actress, and sadly lost her mind to dementia. Yet, both Laura Davis and I had complex, triumphant and healing relationships with our mothers.