There are memories, tales around a table. A frying pan left on the stove, biscuit flour still in the bowl. Small trinkets of colored glass set in a row. We rummaged as children but the adults did as well. She went from dark to cold, nothing to stop the decay. It happened way before that walk from here to there but there was a void and there is where it ended and there was never any different from anywhere before. There became her.
Long forgotten photographs, I think I saw her smile.
I toy with the idea I could transform the place. Frame large photographs of laughter and place them on the walls. Then I look around me and see what I have done. A floor left unswept, a house unkept. The hardest person to face is who you never thought you'd be. So I fight every day to find passion in the mundane. Pray what I saw there was not what I thought.
Now I realize the impact of the pictures I paint. It seems more important that the trail she walked from here to there was bordered by a large patch of strawberries with an open field behind. A fishing pond on a hill, a small clearing in the woods beyond. Cold water from an artesian well up by the barn.
Yes, it was dark there but opening one door always set me free.