When I think of my mother, artist Ann Cushing Gantz, the pungent scent of turpentine spirits instantly envelopes me, overwhelming every sense. I recall how the acrid elixir would hang in the air and cling to every surface in our traditional two-story house in Dallas, Texas.

It’s been 6 years since my sister died and I’m still stunned by how powerful a force grief can be. No matter how fine I might think I feel, the pain of loss is still locked inside my body and I can’t quite find the keys to let it out.

I’ve been reading my dearest friend’s journals. Spiral-bound notebooks, cloth-covered hardbacks, loose-leaf paper in three-ring binders. Sorting out teenage angst and adult story notes, false starts and full pages. Some of the words are casual, some inspiring, some sad.

Taken from Jessica Schwartz’s blog in which she writes about her late husband, Stephen Brophy. Jessica’s blog is currently being turned into a coffee table book about Stephen’s art, her relationship to it, and to him.