Three generations: one mind, a single body, and intricately woven spirits connected by thought and deed. Womanhood, of shapely strokes and soft appeal. Light appears to dim itself to this intimate occasion. Looking in, fifteen mini-pallets of rough double-varnished wood can be counted, graciously lending their individual intention to the focal image of lively, wet, paint.
It is her, soft and slender, water rushing over that delicate body. A woman of becoming. Mother speaking to child, “Remember who’s and whom you belong to” as thoughts of wonder fill her beckoning pose. Still young and unaware of little more than this very moment.
Drip, dripping from the top of the mountainous spring, fall, falling, from the crown of an old Aspen downwards splashing drops of moist earthy water on slender, freshly green, butter cupped leaves, and finally splashing upon her as she pulls the sky downwards. Water covers her body from head to toe, washing away the hard work and the long hours of labor. Not used to preparing meals for rugged men, or chasing after enough alcohol to soothe their tired dispositions. Flushed from the activities of her hectic day, she is tired. Thinking, as she whispers to herself, “didn’t he smile at me with those soft lips and dewy blue eyes?” For minutes uncountable, she is locked into those straight pearly white teeth and his blond boyish appeal.
As mother once dreamed about father too, she hopes for another day of his sweet smile. [Kristen Delaney]