mother's memoir (frw mini-event)
Today, her brush won't stop moving.
It's something she found earlier that day, something she doesn't recall having seen before -- and it's not something she would have bought, either, because the bristles on the brush are all wrong ... but she's painting like she's never painted before.
She makes bold, black lines across her canvas, a small lupine form taking shape over and over and over. He -- and the woman isn't even aware of having drawn a gender, but this puppy is unquestioningly male -- strikes different poses, sometimes jumping up in the air, sometimes nosing around on the ground.
Sometimes, he's with another wolf. She's larger, grander than the pup, and Ammy doesn't know why she's suddenly so obsessed with painting the same two animals over and over, but --
-- but she laughs anyway when she looks at the picture occupying the current part of her canvas.
A part of her can feel tiny paws ruffling the fur on her hind legs and her rear, the weight that shifts unsteadily as she swings closer her tail for him to reach -- and then a bark of amused laughter when she jerks it away and he tumbles down her back, whining.
Which is an unsettling feeling, actually, because the woman doesn't understand the sudden affection that's crawling through her body. (Did she used to ... own dogs --Â before?)
(Before the first time she woke up, without even knowing her own name?)
But Ammy continues painting anyway, enjoying the ink on the page and the black flecks that appear on her arms and clothing.
She paints the two playing together, chasing after a butterfly -- she paints the two sleeping together, one curled around the other -- she paints and paints, over and over, until the sun has set and the moon has risen and she burns down the last of her candles.
When she puts her brush down and lies down in her bed, she dreams of the smell of flowers and the taste of dew; the warmth of the sun and the sound of barking; the feeling of love and the words,
           my son.
