Being painted was not what she had expected. How the artist captured her spirit, happiness, and joy as well as her lips, neck, and nose. She always thought a painting would be meaningless, nothing like a kind memory that you can recall in your mind to bring peace as an oil of a landscape could only hope to accomplish. But when she looked at her portrait, she found it to be like she was suspended in time with nothing but oils and acrylics to be accounted for.

Maybe it was the way he used color, or the way he laid his brush. Maybe it was the light in the room she posed for the painting, or the light that shown on it now. With any reason, she just knew she had never seen herself as she did now. She never would have believed to feel as she did at the moment the artist lifted the sheet from the canvas. She fell in love with herself as if she were not herself, but just a lovely girl in a lovely painting.