A memory....
Impossible Objects
I really didn’t have room for any of it in my already over-laden suitcase, but my dear aunt was very dogged and turned a deaf ear as she pushed her half-worn paintbrushes, blunt pencils and a pretty paint box down the sides of the case.
Laying the sketch pad on the very top, she paused for breath, and I took advantage quickly pulling the lid down, and hurriedly locating the zipper.
Laughing quietly to herself, my aunt left the room and reappeared triumphantly with her old wooden tabletop easel. I couldn’t believe it! There was absolutely no hope of fitting that in I gently but firmly stated, not wanting to seem ungrateful. I tried to remind her that with family, studies to complete, and work, creativity had to remain a long-lost dream for now, maybe forever. So, I really wouldn’t need an easel anytime soon. I would see her again in a year, I could take it then. Couldn’t I?
My words fell on death ears and the decision was made; the matter settled as I sat down upon the suitcase forcing it to close.
My auntie, just like my Nan, didn’t find the time to paint until she was in her sixth decade, (my Nan was in her seventh). This was driving my aunt’s determination. I would be different she said.
Oh, how I treasure her things as I paint and remember my dear aunt who knew before me that I would return to my painting. Painting that was left long ago when my desire for Art College wasn’t to be my journey in life. I was in my fifth decade when space allowed for the paint to flow, so yes, I was different.
(300 words or less - prompted by
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