Where does the rose go? She walks on sharp thorns, the wind in her back. She leaves white trails when her petals are blown away one by one. Dianne follows the path up to the edge of the forest. There, the rose petals mix with dried leaves. Mulch for the soil, fertile soil.
Dianne puts down her easel. Paw by paw the easel sinks down into the soft forest soil. A painter’s cloth on it, and a palette with rainbow colors in her hand.
The first dot is easy. A purple dot of paint that spouts up after being applied. Her spout softens after half a second. Then the dot gets company. A curving line of purple dots dances over the cloth, flutters, stretches down, flies again. A butterfly at the edge of the woods.
The rose looks back. Will she be part of this spectacle?
“Patience,” says Dianne.
The dots follow each other in a steady flow. After purple lines, pink ones and then light blue. For the surrounding cloth, she mixes some forest soil with golden paint. Grounding. The sun on her back makes the paint dry quickly.
Time for a break. Dianne picks up her water bottle and takes a sip.
“Now it is your turn,” she says to the rose, who has been waiting underneath a tree.
Graceful stripes give the rose her figure. A firm stem, spiky thorns, and full white flowers.
“I’m not like that anymore,” says the rose, while she sadly watches her fallen petals.
“Yes, you are,” says Dianne. “This is how you were, how you are and how you’ll always be. The universe doesn’t forget.”