Thirteen years ago, my sister, Melba Jean, walked into my home and changed my art forever.
A leaf painting hung prominently on the wall — the one I’d been so proud of. She stopped about four feet away, studying it in complete silence. I watched her take it in. Then, after a long pause, she whipped around and said,
“Monica Rose, you forgot the shadows. That painting needs shadows.”
I knew instantly what she meant. And why.
I took it down, set it on the easel, and added those shadows. Just beneath the leaves — small strokes, subtle shifts — and suddenly the whole painting came alive.
That was the defining moment of my art career.
The Enchanted Forest came next, born because Melba insisted I find my own style — my own process, my own spirit. She hovered like a coach, watching, nudging, sometimes bossing, always believing. And that’s when my art career truly began to breathe.
So much of what I create now carries her voice — gentle, insistent, forever whispering in my ear.
Melba lived her last years in a nursing home, her memory fading to mist. We hadn’t spoken for three years when she passed, one year ago today. Yet I still think of those two years we lived together — the laughter, the sisterhood, the ordinary moments that became treasures.
Today,I was thinking of her again — of our final goodbye — and realized it was almost exactly the same hour she left this world. Maybe that was her way of waving as she crossed over.
Now I know why purple keeps showing up in my paintings. It was her favorite color.
Rest easy, my dear Melba Jean.
You earned it.
And thank you — for teaching me that art, like life, only comes alive when we remember the shadows.
Love this🥰
i'm not sure what to say except I wish I had a sister and I'm so glad for you Monica that you did. I could tell by what you wrote how close the two of you were. Other people can really open doors for us to our creativity can't they?