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Betty you lived your life as an artist;
do you remember
showing me
where sky meets lake?
Watching you watch the light fade,
I knew we felt the same ache:

To see the through the mystery,
or maybe just get some insides out.

You never pictured you’d live to watch
your own body giving up.
Your hands shake too much to paint;
Alone at 93, all thoughts and memories.

Know that I found love,
she’s an artist too;
she faces the world openly,
shining through
just like you.

“Well just to do it, not to be recognized so much as just to get it out of my system. You spend a certain amount of time doing it, and it’s satisfying, but I’m not a true artist.”
“I dunno mom, you’re a pretty prolific painter, you painted an awful lot of paintings in your life--”
“--I was at one time.”
“--Thousands.”
“At one time.”
“Over the course of your life I’m saying there were thousands of paintings you know, probably.”
“Well I had children to raise.”
“Had you not had children, you might have had a whole different course in that regard.”
“Maybe.”
“It was a dream but I dreamt it was real.”

You are and you’re right here.
For a moment it’s bright here.

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