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The Artist


An artist sits opposite me and studies my face as one does a vase. She looks at my eyes, but not into them, copying the highlights, shadows and reflections.

I look back at her with a frozen smile and study her in return. I watch her pursed lips as she concentrates, the earrings that gently sway as she looks between me and the board and the eyes that look, but do not see me.

I sit and gaze as she stands and watches me, with my heart filled with silent pride, patience and devotion. She takes a long breath as she puts down her board and re-enters the room. My Mama.

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