Autumn Walks

The golden hues of autumn sang in full blazing colour. Dappled sunlight peered through breaks of cloud, kissing the Kent countryside.
Sadie clicked the button on her headphones and soft guitar played.

Autumn Leaves by Eva Cassidy

Bittersweet. A reminder her of long car journeys with her father, rain patting rhythmically on the window. The low grumble of his voice as he tried to harmonise with Eva’s dulcet tones. Her mother’s laughter echoed in her mind.

Her memories turned homeward. The tiny flat in North London was the palace of her childhood. The ugly concrete jungle of industrial estates and dilapidated buildings held an inner beauty for her.

She had always tried to find beauty in the mundane and bring it to life on canvas. She had tried many forms: acrylics and oils, abstract and surrealism. She had found familiarity and comfort in watercolours. She recalled gripping her mother’s hands tightly, her mouth agape visiting the National Gallery, as they explored wing after wing. The Hay Wain by John Constable remained her favourite painting to this day, a framed copy took pride of place over her mantlepiece.

She felt a tear bead in her eye. She longed for her mother to hold her hand again. Time was a thief and tomorrow wasn’t promised.
Sadie stopped as a leaf swept into her path. She looked about and knew this was the spot. A clearing had opened in the woodland capturing the fields beyond, a babbling brook trickled, and the auburn tones of the season glowed. She set up her supplies and put brush to canvas.

As she worked, she heard the trudge of footsteps draw closer. Turning, she saw her father.

“Ever your mother’s daughter. She sat like that when she painted too.”

He bent down and kissed her forehead, smiling.