The nature of sorrow often fades over time, but once in a while it remains lodged below the surface of things, a stubborn thorn under a fingertip, making itself felt every time you brush against it.
The years galloped past, flowing onward like the waters of a river, disappearing never to return, on this day, it had been three or maybe five years. I did not keep track of time anymore. But the beauty of the bright spring sunshine, rejoiced with blossoms and the song of birds, brought nostalgia to my heart.
I brushed another paint stroke against the canvas. Purple was my favorite color, but now I had grown to love red. Red was vibrant and strong. Red was the color of blood and life.
In the garden under the spring sun, the portrait was taking shape, a beautiful shape of a woman I loved and
