seven years

You've been gone now 7 years. The way the sun breaks out of clouds, sending rays across the blue. I remember the last time we hung out together in your studio. We had installed an elevator type of chair in your hallway. You and I sat in the sun drenched studio with a view of your garden, frozen, laying in wait for the spring to come. We pulled out the sketchbooks and listened to Graceland. You told me you were prepared for death, that you didn't fear it. You described being free from your body and how you imagined painting with light upon the sky.

I sure miss you, Mom