In August I made a portrait of my parents. I had pushed them to the back of my mind until then. I hadn’t heard from momma in over a year. I didn’t even know if I had the right address. It wasn’t until I made that portrait that I realized that I wanted to get in contact with her. I had painted them as they once were, or I tried to. But when I looked at the painting, I realized that my father’s eyes were guarded as if even the painting was holding secrets that it would never tell. My mother’s eyes were tired and wary like she was afraid of being hurt.