I never met a woman named Sally Carson, yet she’s been with me every day for more than 25 years.
While dining with my mother at a coffee shop in Manchester-by-the-Sea, I watched her abandon our conversation, her gaze suddenly transfixed on a nearby painting. The subject of her infatuation was a watercolor of several children on a swing. I found it odd, for my mother was not particularly fond of children, other than her own. Her eyes misted over as she quietly remarked about the painting’s beauty.
The painting, “Six on a Swing,” was part of an exhibit by a local artist. It was magnificent not only in its luminosity, but in the intensity of the faces behind the contrasting colors. Six children wedged onto an oversized swing, each possessing individual expressions of sheer delight. The stark exception was one child, the outlier, whose furrowed brows and intense scowl seemed reminiscent of sibling rivalry.
A few months passed and I found myself still thinking about the painting and all that it had provoked in both of us. While rummaging through a kitchen drawer a few days later, serendipitously, I stumbled upon the artist’s business card and decided to call.
Sally Carson answered with a disarming hello, and broke into laughter as she detailed the young girl’s furor.
“The little sister was too small to be on the swing, and the big sister wanted her off,” she recalled, as though all six children were still seated on the swing in front of her.
The conversation flowed easily, as though we were old friends. She told me of her cancer, the treatments, and the toll the pain took on her. She was wise, an old soul who knew about life’s sorrows, but also knew not to let her spirit be robbed. When I asked timidly if I could purchase her painting, she giggled with excitement.
“Just go into the restaurant and take it off the wall and leave a check for me if I’m not able to be there,” she said.
A week later, I drove back to the restaurant and did as she instructed. While diners and staff watched in silence, I climbed on a chair and removed the painting from the wall where it had become a permanent fixture. Once my feet hit the floor, the place erupted in applause.
I wasn’t sure if they were celebrating the sale of the painting, or that I hadn’t fallen. But it was neither. Sally Carson had passed away just days before. It was her life they were celebrating.
I never met Sally Carson, but living proof of her passion, spirit, and strength is hanging on my wall.
Leslie Martini is a freelance writer and children’s book author. Though she and her family have lived in Marblehead for more than 26 years, Leslie is still discovering countless untold stories. If you’d like to share your story, please contact leslie@marbleheadweeklynews.com.