I started painting again tonight.  I put my brush down the day Dad was killed and haven’t picked it up since.  It will be two years tomorrow. The urge to paint again has become stronger over the months since I’ve been back in school; school has many ways to heal.  Of course with school going on I had no time to dig everything out the storage to which it had been relegated in those black days following his death. 

Tonight I got out the paper and brushes and the dried water color pallete.  I put them on my desk and walked away.  I wasn’t sure what was inside me.  Later in the evening I drew the rough outline of the villa we stayed in while we were in Tuscany last June.  Then I put it down.  I was almost afraid to find out what would happen when the paint hit the paper. 

 Little by little paint filled in the vision.  I’m no great artist, but I recognize it as the place we stayed.  I remember the warm sun, the olive groves, the rows of grapes, the view across the valley from our room.  That’s not all in this simple picture that is almost complete now.  But it’s still in my heart. 

Hey Dad, I’m painting again.  It feels good.  I miss you.  I miss Mom.  But tiny little pieces of me are coming back home.  And each little piece of me has a little piece of you and Mom too.  I’m not the same person I was.  But I think you’d recognize me, just like I recognize the impression of the villa in sun soaked Tuscany that sits drying on my desk tonight.