“I moved into the Maplewood Apartments last spring, eager for a quieter life after years of city noise. But as I unpacked boxes in my small studio, I noticed the woman across the hall, Mrs. Sandra, a frail figure with silver hair, always peering out her window with a look of quiet solitude. She’d nod politely in the elevator but never lingered for conversation.
One rainy afternoon, I decided to break the ice. I baked her a loaf of banana bread and knocked on her door, my voice bright. “I made too much, thought you might like some!” She hesitated, then opened the door just enough to accept the gift. “Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes flickering to the framed painting above my head.
Curiosity got the better of me. The next day, I spotted her through the window, standing at an easel in her living room, brushes dancing across a canvas. Intrigued, I knocked again, holding up a blank sketchbook. “I’m Linda,” I said. “I noticed you paint. What’s your favorite color to work with?”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Blue,” she replied, stepping aside to let me in. “It reminds me of the sky back home, Kentucky, where I grew up.” Her studio was a treasure trove of unfinished landscapes, still lifes, and a sketch of our apartment’s ivy covered walls. She spoke of teaching art in a small town school decades ago, then falling silent. “I stopped sharing my work years ago,” she admitted. “No one asked anymore.”
Over weeks of visits, bringing lemonade, helping organize her attic, or just chatting. I learned she’d never married but adored painting. Her hands trembled now, but her passion burned bright. “I used to dream of an art show,” she confessed one morning, tracing the edge of an old catalog.
So I whispered an idea, a small exhibit in the community center’s lobby. I rallied neighbors, some brought snacks, others hung posters. Mrs. Sandra, initially doubtful, agreed to display her pieces.
The day of the show, I waited with bated breath. Then, Mrs. Sandra emerged, clutching a scarf like a lifeline. The room buzzed as people marveled at her vibrant skies, still, life sunflowers, and a haunting portrait of our ivy-covered building. A retired teacher praised her use of light. A teen asked how to blend colors.
When Mrs. Sandra spotted a painting of a Kentucky meadow, she laughed tearfully. “I hadn’t finished that one… until now,” she said, gesturing to the crowd.
That evening, I found her in her apartment, a new canvas propped up. “I’ve got a whole series planned,” she said, grinning. “About this home now.”
The exhibit wasn’t grand, but it sparked something bigger, a monthly art swap in the lobby, where residents share stories and creations. Mrs. Sandra, once a shadow, now hosts watercolor workshops.
Sometimes kindness isn’t a grand gesture. It’s a loaf of bread, a question about blue, and a space to let old dreams bloom again.
.
Let this story reach more hearts…..
.
By Mary Nelson🥰
