What Am I Gonna Do, Take Them With Me?

“What am I gonna do, take them with me?” she asked.

This is my neighbor, Barbara.

My friend Mati and I met her one day while walking through the neighborhood. As we passed her house, we got to talking, and when she learned that we were both painters, her face lit up. I’m a painter too, she said, and before we knew it, she was inviting us inside.

Inside her house were stacks and stacks of the most beautiful paintings—leaning against walls, on shelves, behind shelves, in secret compartments, everywhere! We both left that day with a painting under our arm. Mati chose a large California landscape. I chose something a little more abstract. It was such a generous offering, and we were both so moved by it.

More recently, I walked by her house again on my morning walk. There she was—maybe not quite remembering me this time—and once again she invited me in. This time, I got to see the paintings hanging on her walls in the upstairs bedrooms, which I imagined were her favorites.

One caught my eye: an ocean scene with rocks, maybe a cliff, maybe the Mendocino coast. I felt a hesitation rise in me—if I commented on it, I worried she might try to give it to me, and I didn’t want to take advantage of her generosity. But I also genuinely wanted to tell her how much I loved her work.

So I said, simply, I really love that painting of the rocks and the ocean.

She immediately picked it up and handed it to me.

I protested. No, no, it’s okay. I just wanted you to know I liked it.

That’s when she said it.

I’m 90 years old. What am I gonna do, take it with me?

Now it hangs on my wall, and I admire it every single day.

And I know exactly what she means.

We can’t take any of this with us. Not the paintings, not the objects, not the things we’ve made or collected or held onto. As an artist, I know I’d much rather have a piece of my work on someone’s wall—being lived with, being loved—than stacked quietly in a closet.

We can’t take it with us.

Just a few days ago, I walked by her house and it was teeming with construction and workers. I walked up and asked, “Is Barbara here?” They looked confused. “No one lives here anymore, ma’am. We’re preparing it for sale.” And I realized Barbara was gone. Maybe living with relatives? Maybe in a home? Maybe gone gone?

Her paintings are hanging in my room. I don't know where Barbara is now. But I think about her every day. And maybe by giving it away, she took it with her after all.

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