Master Piece

A day in life is like a stroke on a canvas. Some stokes are smooth and slight others a glob of paint dabbed on with ample texture. Some lines come with care and others seem haphazard. Days can range in colors from light to dark maybe a string of days only being a slight variance in hue.
This came to mind as one morning I awoke to stare at the canvas beside my bed. Remembering the tears falling on a damp pillow the night before at a nursing home. She covered her face with her frail Parkinson ridden hand trying to suppress the sobbing. I wondered what could bring such distraught but also remembered my own gasps for air as only nights previously sadness threatened to consume the light of earlier days.
I hoped to bring her the reassurance and peace for which my own soul longed. I could dab at her tears, stroke her hand and hair hoping God would bring a different hue to shade the end of her day.
Nearly deaf, almost blind, and barely having the strength to sit up in bed it was hard to enter into her world and even harder for her to get out. I saw the brush at work that night but what kind of master piece had been created of these precious 90 years and what will the strokes on my own life lead to when all of the sunrises and sunsets have come to an end.