A few years back I walked through my Mothers childhood home with her one last time before it was sold and demolished. As I walked through the doorway it was cold and dark. An empty space that once housed love and joy. It was much smaller than I remember. How in the world did the entire family (aunts, uncles and cousins) fit in such a tiny space for thanksgiving dinners? I'd give anything to go back one more time and sit at the 'kids table' with my cousins, giggling and laughing. I'm reminded that often times the biggest love is found in the smallest of places.
My mother asked if there was anything I'd like to keep. Most everything of value was gone. Just as I was leaving, I glanced over my shoulder and saw this painting and another just like it. To the average person it doesn't look like much but to me this painting is everything. In my Grandmothers older years she would pass her time by doing paint by number projects. They were inexpensive and she enjoyed it. She and Grandpa didn't have much as far as material things but what they did have, they took care of and made beautiful. I love that she created these paintings with her own hands. I put them in new frames and will place these paintings in my home where I can see them each day reminding me of my Grandmother and her hands. Hands that tied countless quilts, hands that compassionately and patiently expressed love, hands that made the most delicious homemade fudge and hands that imperfectly painted.