Seven months later, I sat on the step of the wooden veranda, cradling a cup of coffee in my paint stained hands. Blues, turquoises, emeralds, jades. Navy, silver and gold. I had been painting the sea and stars that day. It was cold out, but I was still glowing with the warmth from indoors. The rug over my shoulders smelled of burnt wood from the fireplace. I loved that smell. Here I was outside my home watching the sunset over Cox Bay once again. Oak lay beside me, resting her head on my lap.
I had made a ritual of this, yet each time I sat there the beauty astounded me. It never faded.
Today as I sat there, pressing the warmth of the cup very gently onto my swollen belly, I thought about that last stormy night in Whistler all those months ago. Our beautiful night of reckless passion. That night was emblazoned in my mind. I smiled. Remembering Jack was not painful any more. Remembering him was remembering what it meant to be alive.
After the last ray disappeared behind the horizon, I got up and walked back into the warmth. I was feeling sleepy, but I wanted to add the final touches to the stars I had been painting on the ceiling that day. Yes, little Philip’s room would be my most beautiful work of art yet.
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