The Day My Sister Taught Me About Shadows
She crossed over one year ago today.
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.
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?
Just lovely. Mary Lou