My grandmother is full of stories. She can speak endlessly about raising my dad and his brothers, the books she has read, bird sightings, recent news, memories of my grandfather. Every visit brings (mostly) new anecdotes to fill the dull moments. She is the one who finally convinced me to start reading. When I refused to pick up a book as a stubborn kid, she made her own with handwritten short stories and drawings for me. Though I cannot remember a single detail of those little tales, I can still reach out and touch her beautiful coloured pencil sketches of hummingbirds and dragonflies. 

I used to visit my grandparents in Arizona every March. Each day, my grandmother, sister, and I meandered through the dry heat to the community art studio. All the artists welcomed us with open arms, year after year. We were “Linda’s granddaughters,” after all. She taught us to make monoprints by rolling paint on glass. My sister, older and more thoughtful, selected colours that matched, while my grandmother tried coaxing me to do the same. She was often unsuccessful. 

Eventually, we graduated to watercolours textured with salt and plastic wrap, acrylic pouring, paintings of birch trees and saguaros. Dressed in a smock made from my grandfather’s old shirt, I had no fear of making a mistake. I danced around the studio instead of cleaning up, admiring all the works-in-progress. I begged my grandmother to drive me to Hobby Lobby to pick out cardstock and more canvases, which she always did. When it was time to say goodbye, I made her promise me that we would do the same next year.

Months later, I would see my grandmother in July on Eagle Lake. Like a bird, she moved with the seasons. On drifting summer days, she taught me to knit and weave. She sat patiently beside me on the porch as I dropped stitches, lost count of my rows, and accidentally knotted my yarn. That first summer, I made nothing but squares. When I became too frustrated, I resigned myself to my Rainbow Loom and magnet-making. On occasion, she asked my dad to set up a table in the middle of the living room so we could craft together. 

This is the primary way I spent time with my grandmother for much of my childhood: watching her make art, learning how to make my own. In a family of accountants, engineers, and actuaries, she was the one who held true to her creativity. She gifted me handmade socks, sweaters, and scarves. She mailed me watercolour birthday cards, embroidery, and magazine clippings of crafts she thought I might like to try. 

I dreamed of being like her – of mimicking her careful brush strokes, of hanging my art on the walls, of being patient and generous. I admired the way she extended her creativity beyond herself, the way she lived within her art. 

Summer slowly became the only time I saw her. In our separation, I drifted away from visual art towards other media. I focused on dance, photography, crochet, woodworking, guitar, drums. With each new hobby came photos and videos to share with my grandmother come summertime. She happily watched my jazz performances and dance recitals, applauding my progress. I wondered if she saw echoes of my dad in me. I wondered if she saw traces of herself, too.

A few years ago, I found my old monoprints tucked in a shoe box under my bed. Some loose, some glued to cards reading, “Rowan Parkinson Monoprint 1/1.” Some marked with my scraggly handwriting, some with my grandmother’s. In the process of moving houses, I scanned every piece of art I made with her. I labelled my favourites. I put some up in my new room. I found a new appreciation for her relentless encouragement. Whether she saw some skill in me or not, she kept helping me make art. She was the first to show me I could never shake the desire for creation.

This December, I will see my grandmother in Windsor. I will show her the blanket I am knitting and thank her for teaching me. I will show her how her art decorates my walls: a new painting up in my childhood room, a sketch above my bed, watercolours on my dresser. I will ask if she remembers making those books to help me read. I will think about her hands, strong and worn from years of art, and my own, clawing for a chance to create. I will laugh and smile and listen to her stories. And I will say goodbye, once again, until July.