I was only a few strokes in when I began to see her face. I had to wipe away the tears because suddenly I was transported from my easel in the south of France to the Charles de Gaulle airport, holding the sign above my head that read Grandma Elsie. Of course she wasn’t yet a grandma, and possibly not even a mother, but I knew her. And oh, how she was dressed for Paris. That hat! That fur collared coat. And a waist — a waist I had never seen before. But that grin I knew. That grin was all Elsie.

I have been waiting for over 10 years, wondering if she would come. Wondering if she knew where I was. She had visited in a dream once, but I still wasn’t sure. I wasn’t certain until I held the paintbrush in my hand, and watched her come to life. On the panel, she is much younger than I am now. But maybe that’s the way it has to be. Maybe we have to get old enough to realize how young they once were. To see them as women of this world, our grandmas, our mothers. Running on legs of fawn, carrying hopes and dreams, cinched in at the waist, as to never let them go.

Of course I was happy for myself, to see her, but it was so much more than that. I was happy for her. I AM happy for her. To see what came before the apron. Before the ever-wringing of hands in front of the sink. This young and vibrant Elsie. Not jet lagged or weary. Ever hopeful. Ever possible. It all makes so much sense now — her daughter Ivy.

I have two belts that belonged to my mother. Today I will cinch one in tight. And carry them both with me. Waisted in wonder!