Flowers

Her hands were a tribute to her work: they were rough, callused, perpetually stained with ink or paint or contact bond. They've been bruised and cut and chafed and nicked and scalded and pierced and skinned in spots.

They did not look like a woman's hands at all.

On her worktable, a big black notebook lay open to a blank page; sharpened 4B pencils, a worn eraser, calligraphy pens, bottles of ink, tubes of acrylic paint, and paintbrushes were scattered around it, like a coven worshipping fire.

She sighed. Sometimes she wished that the table held nothing but a bunch of flowers.



(photo by Julie De Leon)