I made coffee at home. No more long mornings in the cafe. I have an idea for the first style. No more sketching in the workbook while sitting in the park. Today I enter the studio. No class to teach, no market to labor. No orders to ship, no house to view. No Thai Food dinner date. All I've got is the radio and time. In a number of months I will have a new collection.
There is a lovely woman, out there. She sends me little bits. She is downbeat with a low voice and long limbs, a painter, a mother, a collector of sorrow and of strength. I am thinking of her as I head up the creaky stairs, past my bed of rumpled sheets, into the former nursery where my sewing machine waits silently. Amanda, with her legs folded against her chest, rocking in a wooden chair, low light from the window touching the floor. Outside there are only a few remaining leaves on her Michigan apple.