I breathed deeply and closed my eyes, finally allowing myself to
accept my story in the little art supply store on Maple Street; I allowed
myself to admire my own strength. When I opened my eyes seconds or
minutes or hours later, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm, of peace, of
new direction.
I picked up the pack of pastels I had been looking at, the cheapest
drawing pad I could find, and practically threw my money at the old
woman behind the register. I made my way back to the “Box”, half
tripping over my own hasty feet. Now I was the one with a mission.
When I got back I set my things down quickly and ripped open
the plastic packaging of the pastels. The weight of the small object in my
hands felt like the most “right” thing in the world and I worked quickly,
as if I had never stopped; I didn’t want to forget the face of the beaut