Turquoise Jim

Who will narrate the legends of our ancestors, in prose and verses with a peculiar style and own drawings now that you are gone? On the balconies, the wind chimes play with beautiful sounds, the life story of the hands that formed their beauty and their shape, although the sound is not like the usual one of joy because today, they are in mourning.

The drawings that remained in his memory without taking shape on the Christmas cards will have to be complete in the heavenly court where he will be waiting to deposit them in our hands one day.

Today, the little birds in the trees sing a farewell song to the one who was their companion on the Red River banks. The river carried the wood drifts that inspired him to create picturesque scenes, but today they float aimlessly down the stream of water away from his magic hands.

No one will capture the bright colors on the canvas or collect in the photo albums, old times. He was called Turquoise Jim, by his friends. He was proud of the Native American in his blood. For others, he was the older brother who never came late to a family event, for it was the most important thing for him.

The chair at the table will be empty without his presence, and the brothers are incomplete, where there were four, now only seats three. There will be no one to replace the storyteller, one who will become a legend himself.

We will always remember and love you, brother.