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The picture I painted. It is perfect. It is vibrant and cheerful. I move into it to watch and live the scene.
A little girl, with soft, bouncy, brown curls, runs in the meadow picking brightly colored wildflowers. Not a care in the world as she takes the child size bouquet to her mother who sits under the shade of the oak tree.
They have lemonade, and butter cookies, and laugh together, and smile at each other with love, as each conveys a story. They watch the butterflies move vigorously from one beautiful flower to the next, consuming the luscious sweet nectar. Mother closes her eyes. She listens to the sweet music of Daughter's laughter as she plays with a kitten in the tall, soft, grass. The warm yellow sun embraces them all.
A warm breeze blows over Mother’s face and revives her from her trance. She rises from the lawn chair and slowly places the white straw hat on her head. She moves across the meadow. The wind is stronger now. Her pale yellow dress is blown out behind her, floating above the ground. Daughter cries out, Mama please don't leave me, but Mother continues on, not listening to Daughter’s cries. She ignores her and continues walking.
Daughter runs after Mother. The wind is too strong for her little body to move, she is tossed to the ground. She continues to cry out, until Mother’s form fades from her sight, forever.
Wind picks up, sun disappears, and a sheet of rain erupts from a broken dam embedded in dark boiling clouds. Meadow and Daughter are drenched…
The colors of my painting start to run together. They blend into bleak chaos. My painting, not of oil, but watercolor, is washed away.