By Sarah E. Murphy

I remember

the first time I identified

with an artist.

A summer family trip to Chesterwood

the vacation home

of Mr. French

known best for the

foreboding yet pensive statue of

Mr. Lincoln.

Larger than life

silent as a tomb.

Walking around

his tranquil grounds

I felt a kinship with

the man described

by an enthusiastic tour guide

and I longed for

such a life.

I drank up the stories

of his process

and the way his creations took shape.

Ideas hatched

in his barn

that would eventually materialize

and come to life.

Later we visited

a stained glass studio

and I wandered around craving

the artist’s work

as if they were

fine chocolates.

I lamented over

a pale blue sphere

with swirls of aquamarine

adorned with

a jagged piece

of navy blue glass

in the center.

It cost sixteen dollars

and although Mom

a mother of six

was always forced to be frugal

encouraging us to

save not spend

she was the one

who urged me

to buy it

with the

babysitting money

wadded up

in my shorts pocket

eagerly waiting

to be spent.

Mom bought

a stained glass

Canada Goose

to represent

Nana Matthews’

Prince Edward Island

heritage

and I stared protectively at his blue, green, and scarlet wings

as he was carefully

wrapped in paper

fearing he wouldn’t

survive the long ride back home

in the crowded

station wagon.

That goose would greet me for years

from the family room window and

at Christmas

candlelight would cheerfully

bounce off the glass.

He became a comforting symbol

a beacon I sought

when walking

up the brick path

to assure me

nothing had changed.

Mom and I

stood side by side

at the counter

with our purchases

that day

and I felt the same

creative kinship

once again

but this time

with my mother

for she knew

it was something

I just couldn’t leave behind.

She knew somehow

it had spoken to me.

SEM, 2004