Holding the brush in my hands for the first time, all the bad memories and incidents I have been through in the past couple of days, looked like taking a step back and letting me smile a little. The smooth paint is resting at the tip of the soft brush, as I hold the pot with another and lay the first coat of paint on it.
The brush dances in between my fingers as if it has gotten its own life and moves on the pot as if it was a graceful dancer showing its skill with super ease.
Everything around me, the sound of the footsteps of others working, the men teaching the girls and boys, the chattering from the outside, seems to fade in the beautiful silence as I move the brush to and fro in several rows. Taking enough paint from the big pot so it doesn't drop on the floor at all, I can complet
