If you stand in my kitchen and the door into the dining room is open, you can look through and see a huge portrait of my husband, the only child of his parents. And you will see it. You can't miss it. Although a bit large, it's a lovely thing, painted by Leon Loard when hubby was finishing up high school around 1970 and secured in a lovely golden frame worthy of a delicacy you might bid on at a Sotheby's auction. Remember, I told you he was an only child. His parents definitely doted on him. He was their world. Somehow, though, he escaped that "only-child-is-a-hellion" reputation. Thankfully.
As I said, standing in the kitchen and peering through you will see the portrait. Immediately. And over the years, many have done exactly that, invariably commenting, "That's a lovely picture of your son," to which I gleefully reply, "That's not my son. That's my husband." I guess I might expect that assumption of adults who have seen both men. What I didn't expect was the innocence of a child.
Yesterday being a Friday, we had both grandchildren at our house and at one point in the day, the granddaughter says, "Yay." I turned to see what she was talking about (she's two...we turn to see what she's talking about a LOT) and saw that she was pointing into the dining room. "Yay," she repeated. I looked up to see the portrait of my husband.
"No, honey, that's not Uncle Jay. That's Pop," I smiled. She gave it another look and asked, "Where's JuJu?" I was incredibly touched by her thoughtfulness but answered honestly, "Oh, honey. My parents didn't have that kind of money," knowing that she wouldn't understand that at all. She gave it another look then turned back to her playthings.
You could almost hear her little inner voice saying, "The other kids are right. Life ain't fair."
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