Dementia’s a b***h.
And a blessing for some.
Lyn’s memories faded over time and with rose coloured glasses: the non-drinking kind, smiles found their way back to her face in the form of grandchildren and her art.
With bold, broad strokes she painted the beauty she saw in nature, sweet chubby faces and shoes; of all things. They gave her a point of reference. A start. Grounded her.
The smell of the oil paints and the swish of brushes and turps filled up her senses and controlled crazy worrying thoughts. Where she left her paintbrush became her biggest concern; the trail of wet fingerprints haphazard and unhelpful.
Little fingers could rampage through her paint daubed cupboards without fear of reprisal and laughter was heard as the messy culprits were found in the biscuit barrel. O
