Today didn’t officially begin until noon, which in kitten time is basically dusk. Whiskey and I were up late the night before, running through her greatest hits: pounce, peekaboo, and the Olympic-level event known as catch me if you can. We play a little rough, I’ll admit. I wiggle my hand, poke her belly, and suddenly there are four tiny limbs flailing in every direction like a malfunctioning windmill. Equal parts ridiculous and adorable. The kind of chaos that earns a late wake-up call.
Eventually, the day called me to order, because it was the closing reception at the Whittier Art Gallery. These things always feel a little bittersweet. You spend weeks letting your work live on the walls, meeting people, overhearing comments, pretending not to listen while very much listening. Then suddenly it’s time to pack it all up again.
This time, though, the numbers told a happy story. I sold over $200 worth of art, and with the gallery’s split, I take home 70 percent of that. Not bad at all. Real money, real validation, and real momentum. I’m putting that toward having a show of my own this summer, which feels like planting a flag instead of just passing through.
While I was filling out the gallery paperwork, something unexpected and genuinely touching happened. My mom approached me quietly, almost shyly, and asked if she could join the gallery and be part of a show. She hesitated, worried that I might see it as competition.
That stopped me cold.
Competition? From my own mother? Not even close.
I told her exactly how I felt: I’d be honored. Art isn’t a zero-sum game, and there’s room on the wall for more than one voice, especially when those voices share a family history. As she started talking excitedly about the pieces she’d want to show, I realized I might have to gently limit her just so I can fit all my own work in. I have a lot of drawings I want to include, especially my Florentine nudes, studies of the masters from Italy. Still, the idea of sharing a show with her feels like continuing a tradition rather than crowding a space.
Somewhere in the middle of all this good news and planning, I noticed something else creeping back in. The shortness of breath. It’s tied to the cravings, but not in the way I first thought. It comes from anticipating smoking someday instead of deciding not to smoke today. Leaving the door cracked open. Telling myself maybe later.
That doesn’t work.
If I want the breathing to ease up, if I want the cravings to lose their grip, this has to be a permanent quit, not a future negotiation. Not tomorrow. Not someday. Today.
Art sold. Family strengthened. Insight gained.
I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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