Yesterday he turned fifty-four. His first birthday apart from my mom, I can't imagine it was easy. I tried hard to remember what she used to do for him on his birthday, likely she'd make a big, fancy steak (his fave), and buy him a new t-shirt.
Instead of re-creating the impossible, I decided to paint for him. Because soon he will have his own place, his first place as a single man, and without a doubt he'll need some art for his walls.
One of my favorite images of my parents is from their wedding day... so very young, so very much in love. Life ahead of them, poor as can be, but completely together, and that's all that mattered. They piled into the back of that minty green, 1979 Ford Fiesta and rode off into their wonderland. Thirty two years they shared as husband and wife. Not all roses and unicorns. No, no. But they kept their commitment to one another and I admire that very much.
So in the darkest of my heartache, I find art to be the most healing of all. So I do it, and I do it often.
Here's the original image: