It always comes down to millimeters. The curve of an imperfect lip. A slight squint of one eye. Raising an eyebrow by seemingly a hair. When painting a portrait, it’s these infinitesimal adjustments that can change the image on the canvas from just a person into someone you know and love.

But I suppose it’s always been the way. these little things that I looked to for comfort. The nyloned leg of my mother. The pinstripes of my grandfather’s overalls. The cursive Thom McAn of my grandmother’s shoes.

It was at one of her neighbor’s garage sales. At best I was waist high of all the scavengers. And it wasn’t long before I was lost in a sea of card tables covered in dishes, rags, tools and knick knacks. My grandma had let go of my hand to pick up a sausage grinder, and the waves pushed me out of her sight. I could hear her laughing – perhaps at the price, or the details from the last card game played on one of those tables – but I couldn’t see her. My gerbil heart began to panic and race. Tears welled as I weaved my way from shoe to sensible shoe. I searched for the lines of the capital T that would form a string and gather me in. Off brand. Off brand. Where was she? I touched polyester pants and dangling laces. One tear fell, leading into two, three. Dropping quickly now. I got on hands and knees. And there they were — Grandma Elsie’s Thom McAn’s! I grabbed each ankle and she squealed like she had a “winning hand” — and I was safe. 

It’s what keeps me working. Sitting for hours in front of the canvas. Painting. Trying to get it right. Attempting to form the perfect strand that will unite us. Knowing these connections, they are the only way we are saved.