An artist reflects

I'm wondering how many times I drew
that house, that tree, that bird
before my mother told me to stop.
I know the moment seems to haunt me still,
but I'm trying to see it now from her perspective,
knowing what she probably didn't know
about the therapeutic aspects of repetition.

I wonder if she just lost patience;
if my endless iterations failed
to show any sign of progress,
and this embarrassed her.
And then I wonder about my childhood self,
whose pleasure in this simple drawing
seemed to her obsessive.
Did I paint it because it felt good,
or I was trying to process some aspect of home?
Was I hoping that my drawing might improve,
or did I paint it because she praised it once,
and because praise came so rarely
I was desperately trying to earn her praise again?

After so many years, I have no access
to the answers for these questions.
Did my desperate bids for praise
trigger her guilt? I cannot know.
And what I can't know -- ever--
is which came first--
my need to please, or her disapproval.
I only see how this simple incident
reverberates through the years, and wonder --
what if I were to draw that red house now?
That black roof, and that flat blue sky,
that tree, that pond, that grass?
And if I draw it many times,
would the process then reveal
the answers I was seeking?
Or would I finally discover
the truth behind my absolute
conviction that I really cannot draw?