I Wish I Could Paint

I wish I could paint.

One of my patient's today was a little elderly lady who had soft gray hair that lay in short disheveled waves and eyes the color of a rainy day in May. When she smiled a dimple blossomed on her right cheek and the crinkles around her eyes gave her comfortable laugh a kind of credence. When she spoke, she called everyone, "Honey," and her southern accent was so thick I swear I could almost smell the sun ripening peaches. I am sure that she is full of good stories. I perched on the chair next to her, told her jokes and asked her questions just to hear her talk and laugh.

 I wish I could paint.

See, I want to paint a picture of her sitting in an adirondack rocking chair on the creaky front porch. The porch is attached to a house painted deep blue and I want to paint the dazzling pink azaleas that are in front of it. I want to place a beading glass of filled with ice and amber colored sweet tea in her left hand and a book in the right. I want to paint that laughter in her eyes, I want to tint her cheeks the perfect creamy translucent pink and reveal the dimple that is just northwest of her smile.

I wish I could paint, but I can't. And this is frustrating me to no end.