Tipsy threw herself into painting in ways reminiscent of her prolific college years, even though she felt like dog shit after the vision. The headache nestled behind her forehead like a nest of rats. She felt mildly nauseous most the time, like she did when she read in the car. Everything she tried to eat tasted like sawdust. After a week, she felt a little better, but her appetite didn’t come back, and she couldn’t stand bright light, so she religiously kept her sunglasses perched atop her head. She took precautionary Tylenol each morning, and stopped drinking her usual green tea. Her stomach suddenly couldn’t tolerate it.
Still, she finished the painting in nine days, from first sketch to final brush strokes. When she finally stood back and looked at the finished product, she had trouble holding back tears. Her hungry eyes raced over the canvas and devoured the earthy palette that she’d interspersed with the colorful pop of flowers. She relished the contrast between the house’s solidity and Jane’s muted fragility. The dusky figure looked as if she might blow off the porch in a strong wind. And finally, and most important, a sense of some hidden sentiment on Jane’s upturned face. Even Tipsy wasn’t sure how to define the conveyed emotions. She only knew they came from Jane’s own memories, and that she’d never painted anything more beautiful.
“Thank you, Lord,” said Tipsy. “Thank you, thank you.”
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