Yesterday my six year old asked me if the Saints had ever won the Superbowl. It’s a question I can honestly remember asking my own parents at his age, but where I got to say yes, they had to explain the playoff curse– not only had we never gone to a Superbowl, we’d never so much as won a playoff game. So I told my son the story– two years before you were even born we had this magical season. I watched the game in the quarter with people that would become your godmother and godfather, other friends you still call “aunt” even though we aren’t really related. When it was all said and done we laughed and cried, we hugged strangers on the street, we jumped up and down, and chanted with gravelly voices worn down by four quarters of cheering.

He looked up at me with those big, dark brown eyes and said, “Try to think about that time, mom, and not the last game.” So I did try. And I found myself smiling.

For those of you who have been following me since the beginning, you know that art was, above all, my therapy, my response to tragedy. And now, even in much smaller disappointments, it continues to be.

I think I’ve got one more Saints sketch in me. Who should accompany Kamara, Thomas, and now Brees?

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