My Grandmother

She was a painter

But isn't she still?

She passed away over fifteen years ago

But her paintings hang on my walls

In my house that she has never seen

Are pieces of her

Stories she decided to tell 

In layers of oil paint

Textures on canvas

Colors created, not found

Pictures imagined, not taken

Motion arrested, not captured

Love with no words

Magic with no spells

Beauty with no mirrors

A painting