My Aunt Ada was an artist. Well, sort of. Perhaps she was more of a wanna be artist. I am. I get that. I have a small framed pen and ink she did. It’s uh, well, identifiable. I think that’s important unless you’re modernistic in your expressions. I once water-colored a flower that appeared to be a flower. It was a thrilling moment for me and my art instructor who rushed home and framed it. Of course my art instructor was my best friend and her reaction was ochre-d with love.
Whoever framed my aunts picture of a winding road had a deep shade of prejudice. And I’m grateful. It’s one of the few brushstrokes of her life that I have.
Ada was also a keeper of fine jewelry. Well, not fine as in Tiffany. No, hers was more down-home than that. Actually the piece I have is a teeny-tiny telescope. It’s not ivory it’s more plastic-like and when you peer through it you see the Lord’s Prayer. I keep it in a safe because I know value when I see it.
I also have Aunt Ada’s ink pen. Probably the very one she inked in her art with, it’s a marbleized green. And I imagine she wrote letters and scribbled notes to her boyfriend with this pen. As a writer I appreciate artistic implements.
Did I mention I never met my Aunt? She died before I was born. My mamaw said Ada died of a broken heart when her sweetheart left her for another…but my mom said my Aunt died from tb…all I know is even though I never met her she lives on for me through her picture, her prayer, and her pen. Traces of her life.
What traces are you leaving behind?