Son ... I love you ...

?In my home, I have close to 100 pieces of black art adorning my walls … close to 100 pieces and counting I should say. I absolutely love collecting and the pieces I’ve chosen thus far capture the essence of who I am and set the perfect tone. Some were gifts while others I purchased myself, but no matter how they were acquired, they play a central role in continuing to help me create just the right environment.

As soon as you enter, the art starts with a powerful series detailing an Africans path from freedom to slavery. A few steps forward, just before you enter the kitchen, you’ll see hanging overhead a graduation gift: beaming and shining, looking brand new although it’s over 20 years old. That front room alone holds 31 pieces and I love the way they work together, welcoming you, ushering you, embracing you from start to finish.

Upstairs there’s the room I dedicated to my father with jazz-themed artwork from floor to ceiling. I promise you when you walk into that room you can’t help but to begin snapping your fingers, bobbing your head, and tapping your feet … and that’s before the music comes on! Guest rooms, the living room, even in the bathrooms, there hangs a piece of strong black art.

But here’s the thing, In every room no matter who painted it, how much it costs, who bought it, or where it hangs, the most beautiful piece in that space … is a picture of my mother. That’s right, every room in my house has a picture of my mother somewhere in it, and in most cases, it’s a duplicate.

It’s a duplicate because quite honestly, we simply don’t have a lot of pictures of her. Time and time again I used to drill my father, asking for more pictures of mom, thinking he had a stash somewhere for him and him alone. Then one day he broke down and told me there were no more and he never took more – because he never imagined living life without her. From the day they met he always thought she’d be right there by his side.

Knowing he had no more to share, he started making copies: duplicates of the ones I already had. Every so often, I’d walk to my mailbox and there was an envelope with a picture of her inside. One day he called and said, “I know you already got those pictures I sent you Lynn but keep framing them and put on the walls somewhere. They might be the same but trust me, every time you look at one, it’s gone say the same thing, just in a different way.”

He was right. Each time I look at a picture of my mother, it says something different and it’s just what I need to hear. When I walk through my hallway, frustrated and ready to quit, I’ll lock eyes with the regal picture of her that hangs in that space and hear her say, “I beg your pardon”, in that bold, distinguished voice of hers.

Sometimes when I’m cooking, her picture that sits just over the fireplace will beckon for me and I’ll eagerly look her way. “uh … is this the little boy who used to survive on grape jelly sandwiches and hot dogs? Looks good Lynnie but go easy on the salt sweetheart.”

On Saturdays in the fall when I’m in my den, screaming and shouting, doing my best to will my Texas Longhorns to a victory, I’ll lock eyes with the stunning picture of her that crowns the coffee table. I’ll hear her clear her throat and say, “son, you do know we’re from Oklahoma, right?”

When I go to bed, I’ll be laying there, just about to drift off to sleep … then I’ll reach for my phone one last time to check a score or read an article. There I sit, scrolling and reading, until the picture of her that sits on my nightstand gets my attention and I hear her softly whisper, “close your eyes little boy…”

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In my home, I have close to 100 pieces of black art adorning my walls … close to 100 pieces and counting. Some are big, while others are small. Some were given by family or friends, others I purchased on my own. But no matter the size, where or who it came from, the most beautiful piece in any space is always a picture of my mother.

When my father told me the duplicate pictures of my mother would say the same thing, just in a different way, I didn’t understand what he meant. Over the course of time, it came to make perfect sense.

Each time I look at one of her pictures, no matter what room I’m in, she speaks to me, saying something in a different way. But each time, no matter how different it sounds, it’s always the same. She’s always saying…

“Son … I love you …”