Travel into the future and you’ll see the hero is a mother. Ghosts tug her clothes and hands, and trail behind her, scuffing their shoes; they run so far ahead, they grow smaller and smaller until she can cover them with her thumb. She knows all their tricks. She pulls a tray from the oven and extinguishes the flames in the sink, her antique ring, cut red glass with a gilded back, weathering those changes. Each morning, she picks one good thing—a fur blanket, a warm cup of coffee with cream, a gray cat curled and sleeping in its basket—and holds it in her mind, like a jewel, all day. Sometimes she has to breathe and lead her mind back to it. Can she bear the heavy clouds hovering near the horizon, impersonating stillness, for yet another day? For years, she paints and paints, always a small blurry figure walking away.
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