A Girl and her Crow - Butterfly Kisses
My father Jack, was a man of strength, humor, quiet wisdom, and a deep love. He wasn’t the kind of dad that just gave you things – he taught you how to do them for yourself. At age 16, when my car needed new brakes, he didn’t fix them for me. Instead, he took me out to the garage, walked me though every step, and watched proudly as I did it myself. That was who he was, always teaching, always encouraging, always present.
When I was young, he made my brother and I lunches everyday in brown paper bags, each decorated with funny hand-drawn cartoons-stick people, animals, and whatever made us laugh. He never wanted store bought cards. For him, the best cards were homemade: art, scribble, a message written from the heart. His notes always began, “Roses are red, violet are blue..”
As I got older, we created together. His version included wood burning plaques, matching hand painted T-Shirts with trucks and jeeps for the entire family, which I wore-even when they felt like “boy’s shirts”- because I loved that he made them. When I became a mom at age 17, he embraced grandfatherhood with joy. My daughter and eventually two grandsons sang silly songs, danced in his living room. They made him shirts with fabric paint full of scribbles and dots - he wore them proudly, and watercolor masterpieces that he proudly hung in his home - for 40 years.
Family was his everything.
He had a passion for photography and adored sunsets, flowers, and the crows that visited him daily outside his home. Those crows became a part of his life. Every call with him ended with. “I have to go feed the crows.” For 10 years, we had Wednesday lunch dates – just the two of us, and I lived within walking distance for 45 years. He was constant, steady, full of quiet magic.
Father’s day in 1997, I made him a scrapbook that followed the lyrics of Butterfly Kisses, filled with snapshots of us through the years. He cherished it more than anything. Later, I turned it into a slideshow that played along with the song, posted it on his Facebook. We watched it together every Father’s Day - and every time, it brought him to tears of joy.
In 2014, my husband and I made the hard choice to move to Arizona. The day we left my dad stood in my driveway, helping us pack the final items. As I loaded our dog into the car, I saw tears in his eyes. He wiped my tears away, gave me a hug and kiss and watched as we drove off – knowing we would still talk nearly everyday on my long commute home from work. Our calls were about “nothing”, which, really, was everything.
Then in April 2024, everything changed. My dad went to the ER for back pain. My brother was with him. After some scans, I got the call, he had brain cancer. Five tumors. I packed my suitcase and flew home.
I stayed in his home, feeding his crows every morning and every night, before and after visiting the hospital. We spent the first 5 days talking about everything. Myself, my brother and his wife, 4 grandkids and a big black Labradoodle laying with him on his hospital bed. We played music with him, showed him photos, I played him the Father’s Day Butterfly Kisses video and again tears of love wipes from each other’s cheeks. Day 5 everything suddenly changed, he went into a non-interactive state and lay there breathing deep. I knew in my heart he could hear every word I spoke, felt every touch on my hand, felt every tear I shed. 5 days later (10 days from the diagnosis) my father passed quietly in his sleep. Losing him was the most devastating experience of my 56 years.
While I stayed at his house, I found treasures – cards I’d made him as a child, drawing from when I was five, every piece of handmade art I had ever given him. He’d saved it all. He always supported my creativity, always asked me to paint his flowers. I never did – and I don’t know why.
But I felt him with me. I still do.
After settling his estate, I began to hear is voice so clearly. “I’m here to help you, to support you. Enroll in the Mastery Program.” He knew I had longed to attend the Milan Art Mastery Program, but “I’d never invested in myself. That August, I finally listened – I enrolled.
That decision changed everything.
Now, I paint from the soul. Each piece carries passion, color, imagination – and a whisper of my father’s spirit. Crows and Butterflies represent him to me. When we released his ashes on the beach, a crow appeared beside me, filling me with joy instead of sadness. Today, a crow visits my home each morning, chattering until I feed him. My dad is with me. Still guiding me. Still cheering me on.
Through his love, I’ve found the courage to pursue my art fully. To create beauty that lifts others. To paint from a place of memory, meaning, and magic.
Butterfly kisses to you Dad. I miss you every day. Thank you for never letting me give up
