Behind Each Stroke of Paint

By Emily Steiger

A painting made me think of you. The way you taught us how to paint the mountains, shade them blue, and paint the birds, in strokes of two. 

The sun plays tricks on the wall - the walls of my baby's room. You never met him. He lies in my arms, refusing to sleep, no matter what tune. 

The mountains are painted in levels of lighting and shading, something my dad taught me about sketching - something that's made all the difference whenever I do draw. 

I think if we were in a movie, now would be the time to flash back to your younger years, and tell your story, in a way I never knew. I only knew you as my Grandma who I saw at birthdays and sometimes after ballet and later on during your last two years since you got cancer. But I didn't get to know young you or watched how your years developed. 

And I wish now I could do that for all of the women who've played a role in my life. It's as I am too busy, learning the role of motherhood, that the writer in me decides she no longer has writers fog and wishes for the time and the words to write about the lives of those who go unseen by an entertainment driven world. 

Maybe I won't ever have the time or skill to write all the worlds and meaning in my head. Maybe I won't ever be one of those moms who somehow write the book and run the home and also teach an exercise class. Or even do just one of those the way I want to. But perhaps little snippets of life and thoughts are all I will ever do, if even,  and why do we make them seem less important? I need little snippets of moments to read in this season of life and maybe this is the only way for me to share the story behind each stroke of paint.