Gemotions

The gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient oak tree in her backyard. Clara stood at her easel, a palette of vibrant colors in her hand, the sun warm on her face. The commotion next door began, a mixture of shouts and metallic clangs, but she simply acknowledged it.

She dipped her brush into the crimson paint, preparing to lay down a stroke of color on the canvas. The sounds were just a part of the day, of life. She inhaled deeply, relishing the scent of the paint and turpentine.

She lost herself in the textures and colors on the canvas, the only world that mattered. She smiled.