When Sarah was little she used to sit on the bed with her sister, and watch her mother paint. It was beautiful and mysterious and Sarah and Elizabeth would often sneak away when their mother wasn’t looking and look at all the pictures she created. Both the girls loved how their mother told stories, always so matter what she was doing, she would tell the girls stories. Sometimes while she painted, or garden, or took hikes she would weave a tale full of magic and wonder. Sometimes she would have the girls sit and close their eyes and teach them to breath magic.
She would say,
“Close your eyes. Take a breath. You feel that? That’s life, that’s wonderful magic entering your lungs and lifting you up so that you can create beautiful things. Feel with all of your senses. Taste the air, feel where you are sitting, see the world. No, don’t open your eyes. You can see with them closed. Hear the birds gossip, and the wind speak. Their telling us things my darlings, we just have to listen very carefully. Now can you sense the energy, the world? Take that, and turn it into art. Breathe this art like you might breathe the air.”

Sarah could remember when her mother got sick. Her mother holding Elizabeth’s and her hands in the hospital garden. It was cold out. Winter, and her father was propping her mother up, had her wrapped in so many blankets she could have been a burrito. Still her mothers hands were cold. But when Sarah had come home with her family dressed in black, as she had climbed the stairs to the attic she could feel her mother there. She closed her eyes and felt, and it almost seemed among the paintbrushes, and half finishes canvases, charcoal, and brand new sketchbooks never been opened, her mother was there.



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