I suppose every baby sister looks to her older brother. Forgetting all the complicated gender roles, I don’t think it has to be defined as support, or leadership, nor guidance…maybe sometimes it feels that way, but really, for me, I just want to be loved. And speaking of complications…it has taken me a long time to understand that people don’t, or can’t always love you in the way that you want. 

Learning the French language, it becomes more clear every day — “that doesn’t translate,” “we don’t have a word for that,” “we have six words for that,” “we use the same word, but for different context.” What??? It seems to be the same for love. My brother and I have always struggled to get the language right. When I’m looking for a hug, he will bring me a sack of fish. Me thinking, “why can’t you just do it,” — while he’s probably thinking, “look what I did for you…” I’m trying to get better. I want to get better. If I can put forth the effort to learn French, I must try to learn the language of Tom. 

It was at my mother’s funeral when I felt it. The minister told us to stand, while grief told my knees to buckle. It was Micah, my nephew, Tom’s youngest grandson, who switched places and stood beside me. He put his small arms around my waist and just held me. I can still feel it. Love.

When I began this painting of Tom’s arm wrapped around Brody, (his oldest grandson), and Brody’s arm wrapped around Micah, and Micah’s arm simply reaching out, I got it. The hug, the love, was being passed down through all of them, somehow finding its way to me. What I had been longing for, I already had. Love.

It was Brody and Micah who became the translators. I don’t know how to fish, but I do know how to paint. I hope they can feel the love in this. I do.