Mom said it often. Sometimes in earnest, sometimes in jest, but always with the quiet certainty that mothers seem to carry.
This painting holds a moment later in her life. She had lost her sight, but was still the heartbeat. It was still unmistakably there. I leaned in. She leaned back. More than you know. More than I can show you. More than sight requires.
A portrait built of fragments. Planes, angles, pieces of color. Not unlike memory itself. A tilt of the head. A hand resting where it always rested. The way someone smiled at you when words were no longer necessary.
Held long enough, those fragments begin to assemble themselves again.
