The room was lit with a spray of sunlight, warm and bright upon him as he lay alone.
He listened to the birds through the window, muffled as the glass bumped the sounds back outside. He had waited for many weeks for someone to remember he was here. For the loving touch she used to give him as she gently turned him in her hand easing out his colour.
He could imagine the wonderful painting he could be a part of….green fields, hills in the distance, cattle grazing. Or waves crashing on a beach, He could smell the brine and seaweed.
Perhaps an abstract, straining the imagination and pulling at the memories of normally cold viewers.
A door slammed and he heard a woman. She came closer and the door opened. At last!
The woman came through the door and looked around slowly, tears brimming in her eyes. She called through to her husband and asked him to pack away her Mothers art things. They would throw them away after the funeral.
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