For what else really is there to do?

A tote of metal tubes slumps on the floor beside you. A tablet is blotted with acrylic paint. A jar of water stands under your fingers, a dunk tank for your brushes of wood and horsehair. Your easel is splattered like a suncatcher. You mix and mop color: spirals coiling into conversion. Then with swift or slow strokes, you make salt clouds and sand reeds and dune mounds. You make a road too to blue where a rowboat floats behind clay and shadow. I want to walk upon your muted moss, step on your shell and sand, and swim in your blue-gray water, Great Grandmother. Oh, what a distant summer! I remember you in your rocker, swaying gently by the windows in the sharp slanted light of morning. Light so bright, I was sure it would cut you, however, you were stronger than the sun for someone (other than your mother) named you Sunny. We would visit you on Sunday mornings. There was a coin bank with pennies. We would fill it, wind it, and listen to it sing. And monkies in a barrel. And in two glass bowls on your dining room table, golden butterscotch candies in crinkly papers and chalky white peppermints. I remember the single bed in the small rectangle room where Great Grandfather died. Someone (other than his mother) named him Grand. I remember searching for his spirit. I never found it. However, I did convince myself that I felt him, hovering. Now a wall in my house leans beneath your bay. In a speckled gray frame, there is no glass over your sea of serenity. It is dull and pretty. I can touch and look at your brush strokes and be glad of you and the time it took you to paint these salt clouds, these sand reeds, these dune mounds. Perhaps you stood barefoot on the soft sand, quiet company to the gulls, fish, and breeze. Perhaps you stood in your studio, photo in hand. It doesn't matter really. You knew how to drink the air and settle your glassy eyes upon the ground, sky, and sea. You knew that to make beauty, one must first see it. You saw it. I see it too. For what else really is there to do?