Unquiet
Things

A few weeks ago I woke up to see that one of my sisters had posted the following on Facebook, along with the photo below.

“My mother was a DEEPLY flawed woman. She probably did the best that she could with what she had to work with at the time, but ultimately, her daughters still suffered quite a bit from the baggage and damage that SHE carried. That said, in the end, if she did ONE thing right, it was raising three girls that grew up to be each others’ VERY BEST friends. I know that she would be proud if she saw us now. I love my sisters.”

LOOK AT THOSE LITTLE WEIRDOS. There doesn’t exist enough or maybe even any language at all to express how much they mean to me. But then again, it’s probably beyond words anyway. I love them beyond anything I could write, or say or think, beyond bone, beyond blood, beyond time. Always and again, in every lifetime. And we’re probably gonna be fucked-up weirdos forever, in all of ‘em,

Anyway, it got me thinking about us and just how OFTEN I think of us. Certainly anytime I see a painting or an illustration with three women doing whatever, or three kids looking strange and derpy…or three graces…or three queens…or three fates…or three witches. It’s always us. I see the three of us in every trio, across every genre and movement, across every era, in every stylistic detail and brushstroke.

Here are a few canvases that I always return to. I can’t always have my sisters close by, but it’s a trip to imagine these characters bickering and laughing and gossiping and scheming and making each other cry (WHY is that so much satisfying fun?? I don’t know. I’m mean.) Sestras, I always see you everywhere, in everything. I love you with my whole, stupid, mean heart.

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