She laid there, lifeless. That’s what they all said. Her arms weak, her mind feeble. Her body tired of trying, it just gave up on her. The women who once could paint the sky with her eyes closed, and could make a masterpiece from anything she could get her hands on. I had vague memories of her. I would remember going to her house, and paint splattered on the floor, the canvas that were once a brightening white, were colored of different colors that went everywhere.
“ Why do you like to paint Auntie? I wish I could be as talented as you, oh I really do. All do is write. Who wants a writer? Certainly of course, anyone would be lucky to have you as special one. You could paint the world for them, and they’ll forever be grateful to have someone like you in there life.”
I asked, but she just stayed shut, as she brushed the canvas with red, and black. She blushed furiously, as if the world was against her. She would wipe the sweat of her forehead and stand back and admire her masterpiece. I stood confused at the abstract art, she only knew the true meaning of the art she created. She’d turn and ask me.
“ Isn’t it ugly? What do you think? I love this piece, it has a meaning behind it. Can you figure it out?”
I would stand there confused, upset because I was far too young to understand. She would do this thing with her lips, where she’d frown and smirk at the same time.
“ You’re still young stud, but let me tell you. I was lost in a time period of my lifetime, I was in a dark spot, so this art represents my anger, and my cries for help. Understand?”
I would shake my head, left a little confused because I didn’t understand it all too well.
“ Do you wanna write something for me?”
She had a notebook, where I would write all my emotions into short stories, and I wrote and wrote. She read, all of my entries, surprised at what a nine year old could express.
“ This is great, you have a talent Kay you really do.”
That morning, they found her. Sleeping peacefully with a smile on her face.
“ Artist found dead, on her bed after battling Osteogenesis imperfecta, bone disease”  read the article.
I didn’t know she was dying, she seemed so strong. It looked like, life flipped a coin on her heads or tails, and disease was her outcome. Who would’ve known?
There she laid, the women who once could paint the world with her fingertips, weak and brittle. The women who couldn’t raise her brush to paint anymore.
My aunt, the artist.