She sat on the stool and waited
on me, who watched for

the sun to reach the right angle,
so the light would produce the perfect colour

She exhaled, softly,
eyelashes fluttering, as she composed herself.

She knew not to ask: Is it time yet? or, worse
How much longer?

Slowly, the afternoon turned into evening and
soft yellow became amber

I picked up a brush, mixed the oils and began