My mother always had a notebook handy. She would doodle and jot notes as she placed business orders on the phone; a constant companion of lists kept the cadence of her life.
 

Perhaps it should not have surprised me to discover the proliferation of notebooks I found in my mother's apartment at the end of her life, but it did. Stacks of notebooks sat on most surfaces, names and numbers of doctors, neighbors, senior support services were mixed amongst notes about books she wanted to read, products she wanted to buy, things she wanted to tell us next time we talked on the phone. It was as if I was finding, scattered across those pages, her clinging to agency and independence. It was overwhelming to see not only the volume of her note-taking but also the way her handwriting, which had always been neat and beautiful, become shakier and shakier as her health declined.
 

I created this artwork as a way of processing the complex emotions I felt around not only disposing of my mother's notebooks but also the way that they symbolized her slowly and painfully fading away from this world at the end of her life. As I contemplated the enormity of end-of-life through these symbols, the phrase "maybe we all just fade away" came to mind, giving this piece its title. This digital collage is composed of a photograph of my mother in the prime of her life--I believe this is how she saw herself at her best--and a photograph of the labyrinth I walk each year to honor my beloved dead, presented as slips of faded and torn papers reminiscent of my mother's notebooks.