Shell’s grandmother had been responsible for instilling ideas that life might look more beautiful.
Gazing into the heart of the large orange-flushed gerbera daisy before her made her want to dive headfirst into its glad center.
Circumstances here would not allow it.
Any exuberance on Shell’s part was crushable, instantaneously.
All of this was only making Shell stronger.
She was thinking of a series she might do about wings, or fragments of wings.
Wings as abstraction.
Wings as means of release into elsewhere.
Why not be like my grandmother, she thought.
What if there was refuge to be had inside things that were far more colorful?
It was from this vantage point that she alighted delicately on the rock near the sea lions.
She could spy on them from a distance, and get a painting accomplished too — or at least a pastel.
* * *