I never got the impression that my mother wanted to do anything more than paint.
Even as a small child I can still remember waking up in the early hours of the morning, hair a tangled mess, tied back out of my face in a tight pony tail. I would wander into the kitchen my round eyes taking in everything around me. My mother some mornings would be sitting at the kitchen counter only dressed in a white lace bra, her nipples poking out the front, and a nice pair of cotton underwear. Her hair, a deep shade of amber brown would fall heavily over her skinny body, shielding her eyes which always seemed to be staring at nothing or something I couldnt see. A steaming mug of tea in her delicate paint caked hands. And a blank canvas in front of her, tubes of paints and brushes sprawled out all over the room. Sometimes I would whisper her name, her stillness making me nervous. At first she wouldnt hear me, and if she did, she ignored me, but after the second or third time of calling her