The mom of one of my daughter's friends saw me painting, so she stopped to watch. There was very little small talk before she dropped a bomb; her husband died suddenly of a heart attack the previous month.
I tried to find words to comfort her until I realized that she just wanted to talk about it. So, I stopped painting and I listened.
When she went her way, I piddled with the painting for a while, but my heart was no longer in it. I look back on it now and understand that my purpose for being there was for her, not for my art.
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