Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: brother


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The translators. 

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. 

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Hold on to.

We asked for directions to the museum. She said we go up to the store “that has red things in the window, you know like tractors… sometimes they’re open, sometimes they’re not, but either way, turn right there, and go to the park and walk through in at an angle, no need to walk around, and then go up the hill, you can walk it, it’s easy, I walk there, and then there it is – right there!” She said it all in one breath. Dominique looked at me, “What?”

We got to the store with the red things. They were wagons. We had one as kids. I suppose it was my brother’s first. So many things were. But I do remember getting dragged behind him. Rust on my white summer shorts from the chipping red. (He had used that wagon for many years before I arrived.) I was dirty, but happy to be included at arm’s and wagon handle’s length.

As we got older, he no longer got to do all the firsts. I find my own, and my others. But he was there. I have the rust stains to prove it.

We don’t see each other often. We are sometimes open, sometimes not. The directions aren’t always clear. But I trusted him once. To lead me. To carry me. That is something to hold on to.

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