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. This time it was no different, but after a hectic
evening of waiting tables she was anxious to pick up her
brushes and paint while she still had some strength.
She had no idea how many pictures she had painted of
Seron; she had long ago forgotten the count. In fact, she had
forgotten many things - but not the face of her husband.
Her husband's image, with all of its sweetness, hung
above her bed.
Seron's likeness, with all of its ambition and drive, hung
in the alcove that she called her studio.
Even where she cooked and ate, his face looked down
upon her with all of its childish charm and humor.
Everywhere there were pictures of Seron. They were
piled one upon another, and hung in every corner of her
shack. She was surrounded by his image. And yet she was
not finished with her work.
Frail and sickly, she had continued to paint. With
eyesight fading, her joints aching, her fingers shaking, she
kept on dabbing at the canvas with her brush, hoping to
finally capture the perfect image of the man she still loved.
On this late night, painting by the light of red coals in a
dying fire, Kyra's breath came in short gasps. She was tired.
But she didn't want to stop - not before she completed her
latest work
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