The portraits hung on the walls of her home...
A gallery of two families.
They were once fresh canvases,
Joyful with the hope and possibilities
That unity could bring them.
But their completion was nothing like the original sketch.
They weren't smiling,
How could they?...
The artist distorted their images
With every stroke of his ego.
He hung them on opposite sides of the room
And walked away.
Day after day they faced each other
Only able to see what he painted...
Impressions they left on each other were hideous.
They remained expressionless,
Confined by glass and their warped frames.
Slowly the walls began to crack
From the weight of their heavy silence,
She was the first to fall to the floor.
The frame and glass broke...
Pieces of her discolored exterior faded away
As they oxygen hit her canvas.
One by one they all fell,
Some taking longer than others.
They helped each other chip away at the layers of paint,
The interpretations of their lives for the first time speaking clearly.
They were never able to restore the family as "one",
But they learned to appreciate the masterpieces uncovered.