The Story
I’m an old artist with a long story. I grew up poor with my brother and my dad—he was tough, old-school, and battled addiction but loved us deeply. One day, while I was sketching a peacock, he stopped, smiled, and walked away. I tossed the drawing, thinking nothing of it. Months later, he came home with a new tattoo—it was my sketch. He’d taken it from the trash. I was too young to understand then, but that was his way of saying he was proud and loved me. I lost him at 15; I’m 46 now. As a hungry 5-year-old sitting alone at 2 a.m., I’d look at the stars and tell myself, “No matter how hard life gets, someone has it worse. We’ll be okay.”
