The colors of the fruit bowl were singing to me in the afternoon sunlight.


Back in my days at art school, I’d have taken this and turned it into a color palette, that I’d use for some screen printing assignment. Now, in my mothering days, I simply acknowledge the colors and take a minute to listen to the singing.

I snap a photo, to assure the fruit that its song has not been entirely lost on me. The act is a tender arm laid around the shoulder of that neglected inner artist, letting her know that, someday, there will be time and place for her again.