She grips her brush like a crayon, paints flowers on whatever she can find, and if you can take the time to soothe your domestic strife-ridden mind, and have tucked your glasses into your handbag, and your back will allow you to bend nearer and peer longer at her artwork, you just might feel a breeze whistling on your face or spot a brace of swallowtails flitting around for pollen or swoon to the strings of your favorite adagio. If your children or grandchildren are lucky enough to be with you, they will leap into swirling, half-open buds, their pokey noses and greedy fingers scrambling to sniff, pluck, and then discard whatever they can grab before they run off to jump on a seesaw or swing. But maybe you’re bored by daisies or daffodils and feel trapped, and maybe you’re famished and want to push on. Perhaps you have a hair appointment, lunch at the tearoom after, and the Swiss wristwatch you bought for yourself on your birthday allows you only a glimpse of her paintings before you dash off again, your husband requiring a roast that’s rare and a casserole of potatoes for dinner, after which he will push his plate away and mumble sorry, he’s met someone else. You’ll behold only blobs of pigment, missing the fine-veined leaves and fragile clusters of petals whose scent could whisk you back to the sweet rush and tumble of your own free childhood. If only you could pause.