In memory of mortality

Madam Alice was in her studio, painting on a large canvas. There was no music playing, no skitter of rain on the roof. She sat in a melancholic daze, focused on her brushstrokes she turned around. The painting was behind her, starch and morose. She turned back, shading her figure. When she turned back around to retrieve her thin paint-brushes near the painting, she stopped. Examined it with the tilt of her head. She noticed that its mouth was now closed. She bent down to touch it. The paint was wet. She could feel the matter on the tips of her forefinger and thumb. A loud clang made her shudder.

"Jesus Willow!" She slanted her head. Willow looked frenzied, panic-stricken. She turned back to the painting and if, by magic, the mouth was open. Back to its original state. Willow turned her by her shoulder.

"It's not done yet."

"What isn't done yet?"

Her gaze drifted to the portrait. Willow spoke in a faint tone. "Do you think it's wise to put it amongst the rest of your work?"