I remember sitting by mother’s canvas
watching as her hand etched worlds into the void
banishing catastrophe with color,
facing doubt with determination.

She’d play jazz over the stereo
Listen to bold brass
accompanied by brushstrokes.
I wonder whether the flowers she painted
were concealed in the cacophony?

Her easel has borne the weight
of an abandoned child for years now,
wooden arms weary, determined not
to disappoint. Father’s work holds strong.
Perhaps it’s time for the both of us
to nourish our crafts anew.