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Show \ 44 She is clunking the handle of the largest brush against the sides of the cup, filling the brush with water. She anoints its contents onto the paper with a swift and graceful flourish that ends with the brush resting in my unsuspecting hand. "How about an iris?" she is asking me and I despair knowing even where to start. She is holding the palate of paints in front of me and I dab the brush into the purple. "Wonderful color!" she is saying, indicating where to put the color on the paper with her other hand. I take a deep breath and prepare to be embarrassed. I do not know her anyway so just how bad can this get? I think. She will go away soon, when she discovers my crimped and childish talent and Eileen and I will have a good laugh. I touch the tip of the brush where her finger is pointing. The color explodes onto the paper. It is running in purple veins and rivulets across the wet page. It is finding its destined shape and when it reaches that moment, despite all probability otherwise, it is an iris. It is undeniably an iris. A lovely purple iris. "Wonderful!" she is saying and even knowing that it was she and not I who created this flower from nothing, I am smiling with my part in the miracle. |