Condemn Me Not
“Claire knew these would be the things that evoked childhood memories, because they did the same for her. Though instead of fabric softener, with her mother it had been the scent of paint. Claire chuckled, shaking the cotton shirt free of creases. Something about the smell of oil and linseed stuck with a girl, but rather than acrid and toxic, she had always found the scent comforting. It meant her mother was working, painting. She was in her element, delighting the kids with fanciful rendit...ions of flowers and fields, skies and sunshine. Trained as a landscape artist, she could have made a bundle producing sceneries for home décor, but she never earned the first penny for her efforts. Her mother never had the desire. Home and hearth was where she made her living. It was her passion, the place she found happiness.
Deftly folding Jim’s shirt, Claire placed it on the pile taking form before her and reached for another. Funny how staying home was the last thing she ever envisioned for herself. As a teenager, Claire imagined herself a professional artist. Like her mother, like Sarah, she had the gift. But rather than paint as a hobby like her mother, she was going to make it her career. She was going create masterpieces, display them and sell them. And if that didn’t work out, she could always teach others at a university. Claire glanced up at the ceramic plate. It was adorned with the image of a camellia. A very basic camellia, painted in ten different shades of pink. Displayed on top of the cabinets, it was her first try at painting, accomplished beneath her mother’s watchful eye.MoreLess
Deftly folding Jim’s shirt, Claire placed it on the pile taking form before her and reached for another. Funny how staying home was the last thing she ever envisioned for herself. As a teenager, Claire imagined herself a professional artist. Like her mother, like Sarah, she had the gift. But rather than paint as a hobby like her mother, she was going to make it her career. She was going create masterpieces, display them and sell them. And if that didn’t work out, she could always teach others at a university. Claire glanced up at the ceramic plate. It was adorned with the image of a camellia. A very basic camellia, painted in ten different shades of pink. Displayed on top of the cabinets, it was her first try at painting, accomplished beneath her mother’s watchful eye.MoreLess
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