Page 63 of In the Dust

My eyes become glossy as I explain, “Mom could have done it by memory, but she made me sit right there on a blanket on the top of the hill, and we’d spend hours and hours talking as she picked up her brush and focused on every detail.”

“Wow,” Gina remarks, her artist eye looking it over.

She knew I appreciated art and spending time at her gallery, but never anything more than that.

“I never realized how important those moments were until she got sick and we couldn't go out into the field anymore. And that painting … it’s the last of everything.”

“This is powerful,” Gina whispers into the air.

“It is.” I smile.

A lightbulb beams above her head. “You have to let me take this with me for the showing.”

I nearly pull it from her arms. How could she ask that?

I take in a deep breath, trying to reason with myself. This is my friend; she’s not trying to take anything away.

This place, this art … it’s been mine for so long. No one else’s. It’s the last of my mom, and I cling to it. The thought of her taking a piece with her, and something possibly happening to it? It’s unfathomable. “I’m not ready yet, G. I’m sorry.”

She smiles, setting the painting back down on the easel. “Dixie, there will be plenty of shows. Whenever and if ever you’re ever ready, just give me a call.”

I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders as we close up the studio and head back to the bonfire, drinking and laughing and enjoying all that this pasture has to offer.

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