Six year old Rose decided that today would be the day she asked her grandmother about the painting.
It always held her interest, magic upon a canvas. Perhaps it was the rich colors that shimmered under the perfect lighting. It could have been the girl captured within the painting. Maybe it was all of those things, but she had an idea on what it truly was—the eyes.
They were created by the tip of a brush, but carried more life than anything she had ever seen. Color of ice blue, they carried familiarity, warming the inside of her chest. The more she stared, the stronger it felt.
Rose entered her grandmother's living room to see her standing motionless below the giant painting, which stretched over four feet on the wall. Every day Rose spent the afternoon over here, her grandmother would stare at that painting, not a single world falling past her wrinkled lips.
Rose tugged on her grandmother's sleeve and asked," Grandma, how come you look at that painting every day?"
Her grandmother looked down at Rose and smiled. She placed a single hand upon Rose's shoulder. "Somebody once told me long ago that the woman in this painting is the most beautiful girl in the world."
Rose thought to herself for a moment and spoke again. "So why do you look at her every day?"
Her grandmother too paused, her faded blue eyes distant. She found her smile once again and placed it back on her lips. "When I do, I hear him telling me again."
Rose stared at her grandmother, taking in her words. She pursed her lips and nodded before reaching for her grandmother's hand, grasping the long fingers with her own. "I think you're the most beautiful girl in the world."
The two of them both stared at the painting, held by familiar eyes of their own definition of beauty.