I imagine Aunt Vivian sitting down to the easel before her and wonder – did she take lessons? When she painted this water color delight of pale pinks and greens, flowers resting upon a careless stack of books, was she alone or with a group of others equally intent on the subject before them?
I am the caretaker of this passed-along family treasure and it occupies pride of place above the mantle in my office, so much a part of my daily view I scarce notice it at all. But when my eyes do stop there, it is Aunt Vivian I call to mind – gentle soul, ready smile, warm welcome.
I wonder that she never married, that she was the one to stay home and take care of the parents. Was there no young man in uniform to sweep her off her feet? Did the college-student boarders over the years serve the place of children?
I imagine Aunt Vivian’s life as a water color of pastels, soft and gentle. And I wonder if she was given as much satisfaction and pleasure at the sight of her own creation as I now derive? I hope so.
I am the caretaker of this passed-along family treasure and it occupies pride of place above the mantle in my office, so much a part of my daily view I scarce notice it at all. But when my eyes do stop there, it is Aunt Vivian I call to mind – gentle soul, ready smile, warm welcome.
I wonder that she never married, that she was the one to stay home and take care of the parents. Was there no young man in uniform to sweep her off her feet? Did the college-student boarders over the years serve the place of children?
I imagine Aunt Vivian’s life as a water color of pastels, soft and gentle. And I wonder if she was given as much satisfaction and pleasure at the sight of her own creation as I now derive? I hope so.
