Garrett

24x30" | Original Oil on Canvas

Growing up, my brother Garrett was my world. We’re only fourteen months apart, and as kids, you would’ve thought I was the younger one—but Garrett wasn’t that lucky. Everything he did, I wanted to do. We dressed the same, played the same games, and for the longest time, I insisted on wearing all his clothes because, truthfully, I just wanted to be like him.

We were homeschooled and would wake up before the sun—long before anyone else—to finish our homework, just so we could run outside and play in the woods until the sky turned orange. We built forts, caught tadpoles, and dreamed up a hundred ways to make the woods our kingdom.

The cruel thing about growing up is that life has a way of pulling families in different directions. I don’t get to see my brother as often anymore, but when I think of him, I think of those early mornings, the sound of the forest waking up, and the dirt under our nails.

Now Garrett works in construction and lives on a farm. His boots tell the story of that life—covered in Georgia red clay and dust from the job site. They’ve been with him through early morning hunts, long days in the field, Sunday mornings at church with his family, and endless farm chores.

They’re worn and well-loved—just like the trails we used to walk together. To me, they symbolize more than hard work; they’re a reminder of who my brother is and where we both came from. His story is one of resilience, roots, and the quiet beauty of a life lived close to the earth.