Bold, inked details filled the foreground while the distant horizon disappeared into an indistinct wash of half-guessed color.
Tear blurred figures strode up the path towards Meg, the faces little more than a blot, but the names well known.
The names, the names. People and places. Things and ideas. The names paraded down that watercolor path towards her and away from her.
“Grandmother? Are you still with us?”
The dry-brushed voice belonged to a name half-familiar, but not one set into the scene the way Winslow Homer was.
She tried to paint the present, but her palette had gone dry.
Word count = 100