So weightless that she found herself rising to her feet. There was no burden to push her down into the cushions of the couch anymore.
It was too much to hope that it was gone for good, and she was wise enough to understand that there would still be bad days and worse moments, but the hope that now filled the void guaranteed she’d be able to pull herself out of the darkness.
While she waited for the time to pass, she painted. The redwoods and the amethyst-tipped lavender rose had been her first steps toward reclaiming her passion for her art, but this was something else. It was pure, undimmed abandon, and as the scene came to life, understanding dawned.
She was home.
This wasn’t the kind of home made with a floor, walls, and roof, nor was it the kind of home painted by the loving brush
