Impressionists strive to capture her essence, photorealists aim to reproduce her, orchestras hope to speak the language of her soul. Turning my back on the paintings can't dim the images etched into my memory. Outside, the ghost of her perfume dances on sunshine and glides on the breeze, luring me to the lagoon like a siren song. The water is as irresistible as the verses that once drifted from her lips. The child in me waits for her to swim from the blue hole, at the heart of the lake, as alive as she was before wading into the shallows all those years ago.
Copyright: text Rod Hunter; photo Wix.