Hanging above the old buffet in the dining room,
was an oval frame with a black and white photo
of a lovely young woman.
When I asked who she was French Husband's Uncle told me it was his mother.
"You mean Yann's grandmother?" I asked with embarrassment
as I had never seen a photo of his grandmother before.
And with that French Husband's Uncle told me the story of his mother…
his gentle, sweet, loving mother
he was one of seven children, his mother was an artist.
On the top of French Husband's Uncle's armoire
was a demi-John that was used to hold wine
it had large beautifully full red poppies
that his Grandmother had painted.
She was sixteen.
Self-taught, a natural.
French Husband did not know that his grandmother
had painted it.
Seeing the demi-John, and knowing her needlework
(I have a set of two-bed linens that she made,
not for me, but for Yann's mother for her trousseau)
made me wish more than ever
that our children and I could have met her.
French Husband's grandmother also painted
this oil painting when she was sixteen years old.
A winter's day along the river.
Her signature.
I asked to take a photo to pass on to our children.
An artist. A gentle sweet grandmother.
A link to my husband's past.
Above the fireplace, I saw a charcoal portrait,
I teasingly asked, "Is he a family relation too?"
French Husband didn't know.
His Uncle smiled shyly, "Yes, it is your Great Grandfather."
The stories continued…
French Husband's Great Grandfather was an architect.
I looked at my husband as if for the first time…
one never knows everything about anyone.
French Huband's Uncle had plenty of stories to tell.
One of the differences between my French Husband
and me is that I ask questions.
Not nosey but curious, interested, a desire to know.
French Husband was pleased.
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