some kind of truth - artist statement

"They tell of blossoming, of early sunshine, of sunburn on the forehead, of chilly shade, of uncomprehended repulsion, of childish trust betrayed, of suspicion, of brooding sadness." Colette

I miss having a child, the weight of that sleeping baby, little fingers tightly curled in my hair, stuffy breathing against my neck. Snapping sleepers, scrubbing dirty palms of flour, paint, dirt. Anything held triumphantly as a treasure - ribbons, sticks, pennies, glitter. Their sheer joy in running, building, splashing - always with a constant stream of talk. I miss the physical mothering, piggyback rides, nuzzling, one child on my lap with the other two snuggled close. I miss holding their hands.

Their childhood a memory. Now adults, taller than I, smart, hilarious, delightfully creative, I love the people they have become, but I miss the child.