Paint It Black
by John McIlveen

She dabbed her paintbrush against the palette and applied it to the canvas, blending and feathering with quick, bold strokes until she achieved the exact effect she desired. Stepping back, she appraised her work and returned to blend a spot with her thumb. A pleased smile spread across her tired yet regal face.

Her Masterpiece.

Eight feet wide and six feet tall, the painting was nearly as large as a garage door. A painstaking endeavor, more than four years in the making, she worked on it only during times of utter solitude—moments when she could forget that anything else existed, ignore the pulls of marriage, parenthood, and grandparenthood, and devote herself entirely to her art. She needed to be utterly focused, or the outcome of her work would be jeopardized. It was different from anything she had painted. It was for two people, for two very different purposes, and to accomplish this, every detail had to be perfect.

Justice, a name tagged by her overly patriotic Marine dad, removed her paint-dappled apron and wiped her hands on it. She then folded the cloth, wincing as an arthritic jolt lit her knuckles, and placed it on her workbench.
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