I think paintings are a conversation. You know the kind. The breathless telling, started in the middle, with no explanation, and none needed. Because the heart has already double-dutched itself in, without skipping a beat. This motion, this rhythm, this movement, this love that pays a visit through your swinging screen door, is the only welcome I, we, need for each day.

Maybe I do it as a reminder. As a thank you. As a way to keep the conversation alive. The leaning in of grandfather. The twirl of mother. The dance of children. They are the gentle breezes in my heart. They are the laughter of stories on repeat. They bend me at the waist, and I struggle to catch my breath between the love and laughter, the tears of tenderness that stream the same amid comfort and chaotic joy.

If you are blessed enough to have such friends, such family — if you are surrounded by conversations that begin “remember when” and you’re already laughing — then you are truly blessed. So how do we thank these visitors? (Because love is a visitor.) Do we meet them at Tuesday’s random swinging door? With no wait for holiday or obligation. Only a wave of come in. Twirl in. Lean in. Heart nodding… Come.