I forget how small they are. When I paint them, they become larger than life. Then I’ll see one in the yard. Almost nothing but a motion. A flutter in the leaves. Then it stops for just a second. And I see it. The most lovely little bird. I try not to blink. Capturing all the colors on wings. Knowing it will be gone from the tree in just a second, but it will remain in my heart.

Perhaps I’ve always done it. My grandma used to say that when I was a baby, she could put me in a chair, and I’d stay. I wouldn’t fidget, or fuss. Just watch her. I can’t say I was aware of how quickly it would all pass — this aproned love that fluttered by me. But maybe my heart knew. Maybe the heart always knows. So I sat quietly in the kitchen chair that my grandpa made out of an old tractor seat, and I tried not to blink.

We hung the portrait of the kids yesterday. It won’t stop time, but it does capture it. Even for just a moment. That moment when they stood before the open water. Daring the waves. Willing the breeze to give them flight. When they could see that all things were possible. I smile as I walk by and tell them not to blink.