Tess said she had instituted a system for herself. During the baby’s afternoon nap, she set an egg timer for an hour and went to her easel to paint. She forced herself to do it even if she didn’t feel like it that day, which most days she didn’t. Sometimes the whole hour was a chore, but occasionally the old rhythms returned to her, the sweep of the wet brush over the creamy paper, the bloom of color in water when she washed the brush. Minutes would pass during which she thought of her child not at all; she forgot she was a mother and remembered what it felt like to just be Tess, painting.
