Painting Love & Holding Grief

On hospice visits and the moments that exist outside a beginning, middle, or end.

As a storyteller, I’ve learned that some stories don’t follow a linear arc—they exist as feelings, fragments, and fleeting moments. Whether painting a love story on canvas or volunteering with my therapy dog in hospice settings, I’ve come to appreciate the beauty of presence. This piece is about the in-between — about grief, connection, and the moments that make up the human experience.

A blurry photo featuring a few pieces from my first (and only) attempt at assembling an art gallery (more context below).

Some moments contain a complete story arch: start to finish.

For example, there was the time when I painted for two straight months in order to produce enough pieces to fill an art gallery - a visual professing of how much I adored a special someone: a journey through our love story, on canvas.

I remember looking up photos from our past vacations, hauling carts of craft supplies from Michael’s, sketching drawings - first with charcoal then filling them in, and covering every inch of the dining table with newspaper (yet somehow still managing to get paint on its spotless wooden surface). Then, of course, there was the grand reveal: dressing up for the occasion, my heart beating out of its chest en route to said gallery, leading my person through its front doors (blindfolded), tuning the sound and projector system to the desired ambiance, and unveiling my total and complete heart.

The result? We spent the night recounting adventures and slow-dancing under fairy lights: a few unforgettable hours made possible by some serious scheming.

That’s a moment - a story - I know well: beginning, middle, and end.

But then, there are other moments that are (more or less) a feeling: decidedly, incomplete stories.

Me and my dog Orion after his first animal-assisted therapy visit in 2021.

Perhaps non-coincidentally, the ones that come to my mind all draw from my decade of volunteering at the bedside of hospice patients: first as a music therapist and, in the recent years, as an animal-assisted therapy team with my certified dog, Orion.

I recall watching my dog curled up in a 5-year-old’s bed during a home visit, wringing his body about, accompanied by the sounds of the most blissful giggles. A week later, a social worker informs me that the little boy we spent that cuddly afternoon with had passed away: marking the end of a long journey living with a brain tumor half his size.

Thus, I was left only with that memory of this young fellow being snuggled against and slobbered on - plus the tender sensation of helping him press cookie cutters through play dough on his bedroom floor.

That same month, I attend a celebration of life event hosted in an urban garden: