She saw how carefully he drew each picture, how well he built the depths of a face, the details of a room, and the emotion that poured from the pictures made her cry. She couldn’t explain it, the pull she had to this uncle that had been a shadow coming and going. Somewhere in time she had realized she painted pictures in her mind all along, but the idea of her trying to put picture to paper, to paint the images, that unsettled her. Did any of them know how talented he was? She thought maybe that Aunt Maggie knew. There was something she used to say to Uncle Paul about using his imagination with drawings not drinks. It had been said in Italian and Mary Grace had not entirely gotten it. Everyone always seemed irritated at Paul, but she couldn’t quite understand why. The Italian always frustrated Mary Grace. Yet, Uncle Paul had captured on paper the most serene and beautiful pictures. Mary Grace had hoped when she went back to the box that something would make more sense then before.
