“Love is what carries you, for it is always there, even in the dark, or most in the dark, but shining out at times like gold stitches in a piece of embroidery.”

– Wendell Berry, Hannah Coulter

It was hard.

There isn’t another word to describe the time between Geneviève’s 2015 diagnosis and her death in July of 2016. God, it was so hard. Never before had I experienced such sadness or think I’d witness such a incredibly tragic ending to my sister-in-law’s unique existence. All of it was totally and completely unfathomable. 

The above portrait, taken Thanksgiving of 2015, is of Geneviève and her mom, Anne. It’s the image that follows me the most, I consider it both beautiful and haunting. For many, many years our family didn’t know Anne. She and Geneviève had a fractured relationship and we didn’t get to pull her into our circle until the diagnosis hit.

Anne arrived that Thanksgiving to spend time with with Geneviève and the rest of us. Where Geneviève felt complicated, Anne sometimes didn’t. She arrived to our family as Geneviève’s mom, but also Grand-mama to Phil and Geneviève’s daughter.

Over the months Anne would come to visit, because she lived thousands of miles away,  and towards the end of Geneviève’s life, she stayed as close as she could, which really means as close as Geneviève would let her. I’d often pry myself into Geneviève’s bubble, when I could get away from my day-to-day living of raising two young children.  I’d cry myself up and down the freeway, letting the tears fall for the entire drive it’d take me to get wherever I was going.

More than once, Anne was the person that caught me after a visit with Geneviève and we’d talk, letting our concerns and emotions swell and crash. She knew her daughter and there were times that I felt great comfort in just hearing Anne’s Québécois accent.  It reminded me of the way Geneviève had once sounded, her voice having deteriorated over time as the cancer spread. Anne was there helping to care for Geneviève, making food, carrying on conversations and immersing herself into the small island community where Phil and Geneviève had grown a life together. 

The portrait isn’t really about Anne though. It’s more about a moment where both mother and daughter are squeezed together and frozen in time. My brother has done a remarkable job of sharing about Geneviève, her work, her life, and even her death. It’s just a quick internet search away for those curious.

It’s a struggle for me to write about Geneviève, maybe because she was a very complicated person, or that Phil’s in charge of her story, or that I’m still figuring out what I learned from all those times that I showed up in her studio, or on her couch, at the hospital, or in her backyard and tried my best to listen closely and ask the very best, most important questions.  

I was out of town the night before Geneviève died and I dreamed of her. She was damn loud, telling ridiculous jokes and laughing. I could hear her in my dream. The last time that I had seen her was challenging for both of us. She could hardly talk, breathing was hard. I could barely hear, due to my hearing loss and lack of solution for that problem.  She couldn’t talk and I couldn’t hear, but I wanted to be close, so I curled up in her studio while she worked tirelessly on a book for her daughter. Anne brought Geneviève food and they spoke choppily to one another.

Days after she died, I found myself on Phil and Geneviève’s porch, pushing my way into their house. It was still, calm, warm, and eerily peaceful. I stood in their front room for a long time catching my breath, wrapping myself around the moment. Later, probably only seconds,  I heard footsteps, a shuffling. It was Anne. She emerged from the wash room and came to me, hugging me.

I confessed my shock and confusion, and total and complete desire to somehow help my brother, at a time where there was no help to be given, at least emotionally.  We were all reeling. But Anne. Oh, Anne. she hugged, she talked softly, and she was wholeheartedly there.

And that’s just it. This photo, a portrait of a mother and daughter, taken during a time of great hardship and pain represents so much. A woman fighting cancer, and her mother by her side.

Wholeheartedly there.

Together.