Dashing one final stroke against the bursting canvas before me, my eyes began to feel heavy. A throbbing headache formed behind my eyes as I left The Zone and suddenly became aware of the fact that I hadn’t had any breaks for the past eight or so hours.

I was working.

I can’t predict when my strokes of inspiration will arise, they just do. Sometimes when I’m sleeping I’ll have to jump out of bed to sketch; sometimes when I’m taking a shit I’ll have to suck it back in to plan out a painting. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, my art and it’s inspiration will always come first.

My eyes are hardly open as I set my paintbrush down and they don’t look up when I hear the chime of the bell over the front door to the studio. I hate people coming in while I’m working, yet in my fits of passion I always forget to lock the front door.

“We’re closed for the day. Sorry,” I mumble at the figure before me, not meeting her eyes as I begin to stand up from my painting place on the floor. My knees creak and my joints groan. “Come back another time.”

I turn my back on the woman but she stays standing there– I can see her shadow off the evening glow on the floor. What the hell? I said we’re closed, lady.

“Excuse me,” she says in such a low whisper that I’m not even sure she really said it. I whip around, eyes now wide with annoyance. I open my mouth to tell her off in my tired anger, ask her what the hell is wrong with her, but my voice gets caught in my throat as my brain realizes who I am face to face with.

The same unknown woman who I have had dreams about every night since I can remember. The woman who, despite my insistence to the my foster parents, I have never met before. The woman who I swear I see walking through the streets of New York everyday. The woman who has been in every single one of my paintings, including the one sitting beside me that I finished not five minutes ago.

That same woman is standing before me right now.

“I…” I’m not one to ever be speechless, but at this moment in time I simply don’t have words. “I don’t… Can I.. help you?”

The woman smiles a warm smile– the same smile I painted just last week. I feel my breath catch as I recognize the uncanny resemblance between the acrylic lips I painted and the very real lips smiling in front of me.

“Oh dear, oh dear. And here I was thinking you’d remember me.”

If I thought I was at a loss before, now I’m at a complete loss for words. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

The woman’s smile never wavers. “Oh dear. It’s mama.”