Gemotions

The canvas remained stubbornly blank. Sarah stared at it, the studio feeling stifling, the smell of turpentine a little too pungent. Painting had once been her escape, her joy, her passion. Now, it was a chore. The brush felt heavy in her hand, the colors flat.

Her son, Leo, at age ten, was a whirlwind of artistic energy. He filled notebooks with sketches, experimented with every medium he could find, his imagination unfettered. He'd spend hours in the studio, mimicking his mother's movements, his little face creased in concentration.

“Mom, look! I’m trying to paint like you!” Leo announced proudly, holding up a colourful, messy blob. Sarah plastered on a smile. This enthusiasm, she thought, this pure, unadulterated joy...it was something she used to feel. Perhaps, tomorrow, she would pick up the brush again and feel the same way.