| Betty, you lived your life as an artist;
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| Do you remember
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| Showing me
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| Where sky meets lake?
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| Watching you watch the light fade
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| I knew we felt the same ache:
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| To see the through the mystery
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| Or maybe just get some insides out
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| You never pictured you’d live to watch
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| Your own body giving up
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| Your hands shake too much to paint;
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| Alone at 93, all thoughts and memories
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| Know that I found love
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| She’s an artist too;
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| She faces the world openly
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| Shining through
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| Just like you
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| «Well just to do it, not to be recognized so much as just to get it out of my
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| system. |
| You spend a certain amount of time doing it, and it’s satisfying,
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| but I’m not a true artist.»
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| «I dunno mom, you’re a pretty prolific painter, you painted an awful lot of
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| paintings in your life--»
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| «--I was at one time.»
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| «--Thousands.»
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| «At one time.»
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| «Over the course of your life I’m saying there were thousands of paintings you
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| know, probably.»
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| «Well I had children to raise.»
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| «Had you not had children, you might have had a whole different course in that
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| regard.»
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| «Maybe.»
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| «It was a dream but I dreamt it was real.»
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| You are and you’re right here
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| For a moment it’s bright here |