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Show 123 Totems I am missing my Iris Lady. She has come to my home several times since our first meeting, brushes tucked in a canvas roll under her arm, teaching me and even my children how to make water and paint tell stories. I am wishing I could tell a story of strength here. My strength. Here, I have no power. No strength. Hy has just left with the children and they, in turn, have left my bmshes, standing handles up in my emptied water jug, patiently waiting. The paints are shut up in their box next to the jug. I can hear their mute protests at this insult, bmshes so close. Water so close. Me so tentative. I am very stiff but my youngest was sitting in my wheelchair and moved it next to my bed at the end of our visit to more easily climb into my bed for a tearful hug good-bye and she has left the chair there, within my reach. I put down the bed rails and transfer into it. Wheeling the water jug to the sink, I fill it half full. I place it on the wheeled over-the-bed table and heave my stiffened body back into the bed. I am grateful that no one caught me out of bed. I am not in the mood for a scolding. I swish the bmshes in the clear water and open the paints. My youngest boy left the pad of wa-tercolor paper at the foot of my bed and I open it to a clean page. But its blank stare is over- |
