America walks through the attic, peering here and there and at times thinking to herself that this is like a grand palace of a blanket fort, even though it isn't at all. But it reminds her a bit, of those cozier times, tucked into a little world of her own creation.
Leaning in close, nose nearly to the canvas, America squints until the the streaks of pigment break into something more abstract, and then settles back on her heels, letting it all come together in front of her as a whole. Letting out a sigh, she comments, "This is a lot better than the pictures of her."
But maybe because those pictures were of Pa's Sweetheart, Pa's New Bride, The Happily Expecting Mother. None really said, Leanne who was a person of herself, a person for herself, whole and real unto herself.
"Who painted her?"
shibrogane
