I imagine she can see me from the window as I begin a new painting. It’s a secret we’re keeping until the new canvas comes to life. It’s not her first time, so she knows that to talk about it would suck the magic right from the paints. She simply smiles and waits. Even the bird by her side remains perched. 

We often think that we have to do something. Certainly some sort of action must be taken. When something bad happens, retaliation. With tears, the wiping away. With joy, a wild celebration! It was my mother that taught me differently. That often, the best reaction was just the sitting in, with, and along. In the darkest times, we’d lie quietly until the sun returned as promised. Together. When feelings or knees were hurt, a simple sitting on the front steps as quietly as grass growing would lead eventually to the tapping of shoes against cement, to the exhale, to the jumping off, into the green garden. In the happiest of times, after a book signing, a grand event, after the clapping and cheers, we’d marvel, shaking our heads and smiling in the glorious almost misbelief. Beginning sentences of joy and gratitude, never finished, but continued with hearts heaving. 

I suppose it’s always the little things. The support of simply. Being. There. I look over my shoulder and see her watching quietly. I look above, and know the same.