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Yesterday a former art student visited me. My hands wore dirt from my garden. I served her home-made lemon drop cookies and walked with her among the rose bushes.
"How can you give up art?" she asked. "It's not something you can retire from."
We sat on the patio where I had laid every brick myself. The chair she sat in was one I searched three towns and innumerable antique stores to find. Vines and flowers climbed the trellis, turning our nook into a subtle and intriguing grotto.
"Surely the colors must burn in you. Don't you yearn to paint?" she asked.
The air swelled with color that she didn’t see. Wisteria and lavender turned it purple. Lemongrass smelled sharp and yellow. Salty sea air lent blue tones and the recently mown grass bled green onto the wind.
She shook her head. "And did you have to move so far away from the city? There’s no culture here."
We watched sailboats dance on the stage of the sea until birds crooned their last good night and the orchestra of crickets and tree frogs took over. The stars popped out on the black canvas of the sky, and the crescent moon silvered the edges of the clouds, turning each one into a masterpiece.
"I could never give up the beauty in art," she said as the garden gate swung closed and she waved good-bye from her rental car.
"Neither can I," I said.
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