Evening

There is a sculpture in my studio.

It is unassuming, and it is beautiful.

It sits on the top shelf, next to my dad’s old Nikormat film camera and a model of the Endeavour which Rick made with his grandfather and his grandmother back when he was in primary school.

We have had the sculpture for eight years now.

It was given to us by our minister's wife, a couple of months after Cameron died.

She'd been taking an art class at the time, and after we lost Cameron, she decided to make this sculpture as her major work.

The sculpture itself is of a mother nursing her child.

The mother holds her child close in an intimate embrace.

Her forehead rests on her child's face.

The child grasps his mother's bosom.

From afar, they look like they are one.

When Margie presented me with the sculpture, I was incredulous. Speechless. Moved beyond words.

We both had tears in our eyes as I held her gift in my arms.

I modelled this after a famous artist's sculpture, she told me quietly.

Does it have a name, I asked.

Evening, was her answer.