A reflection of an oil paint in Brisbane Art Gallery

A reflection of an oil paint in Brisbane Art Gallery

It was an afternoon of winter, the sky was dirty and smudgy, the sun gave a meager of light but his face was buried. He didn』t wish to look at me, and the wind was gusting, blowing me, blew my apron, and dragging the leaves, and broke them. They were on the ground, scattering, here and there, dirty and smudgy, like pieces of rags. The ground was crude, hard, and dusty. I could smell the dust, they were smelly and ugly.

And the eyes, the people』s eyes filled the place, filling the air and my breath, saddening me, saddening my heart, and my eyes. They were hurting, poisonously hurting, sympathetic, pitying and light-hearted all at the same time.  But they were happy, they were happy by deserting me, and you, my dear mother.

Mother, it is going to rain. But don』t worry, I got the umbrella. It was still good, and big enough to cover both of us. Mother, you see, I am getting taller, if I tiptoe, I can reach your shoulder, and the umbrella is long, so don』t you worry, mother.  

Oh, mother, you are upset, I know you are unhappy. They don』t like us, they never like us since dad left us. They don』t let their children play with me, and I am sad, yes, I was always sad. But, mother, those days you always smiled to me, saying things to me, things are getting better, tomorrow is another day, you will grow and be happy.

But, today, you are sad, you don』t smile, you keep your lips tight, you don』t say those things to me. Oh, mother, today is different, I know it is different. We are leaving here, the place we have stayed for many years, the years and the places where I started my young memories. And, mother, we will not come back. I know, we will not come back, we will not come back.

Mother, it is going to rain, I can now smell the rain. Mother you don』t have a cap, where is your bonnet? It must be in the bag. Mother, can』t we open it, can』t we get the bonnet from it so you can wear it?

Oh, don』t worry, mother, I have the umbrella. It is not going to be a big storm, I know that, I know, and I can hold it firmly, and your hair is not to be wet.

Oh, mother.

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