One night when I was four, I awoke sick as a poisoned dog. A California moon reached through my bedroom window but it brought no comfort. I ran to the bathroom & threw up.

   As I leaned into the loneliness of nausea I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be okay, Chip,” my dad said. My father eased the isolation of my illness. His calming hand & voice delivered relief.

   Love's first gift came at my mother's breast. It is the gift that models all caregiving. But, one of my first recollections of feeling loved came from my father.

   When we are well we can feel bullet proof. From the height of our health, we may even condescend to the ill. When you are sick illness looks endless. In the depths of your agony, health is a distant star. 

    Our life experiences arrived in a caravan of moments. Our love for life grows from a single belief: that each day is worth living.   Caregivers carry hope.

   When you were little who cared for you in sickness? Why do you care about caregiving? Does some alcove of your memory recall a cold night when your mother stroked her warmth across your face.

   The love your first caregivers gave you was as important as any medicine. Love lived at my mother's breast & in her lap. The sheets she cleaned & tucked were ever white. She was ever young.

   As I recall my earliest days, I recollect what mattered most. It matters most today. It is love.

   We walk through time with lives on the line. When pain haunts our walk nothing seems more crucial than relief. 

   Caregivers carry love. No gift is more precious.  

-Erie Chapman

Photographs by Erie