Dream Journal
A woman walked into the conference room carrying a long painting. I recognized the painting, its dark blue background amateurly done. The woman stood on the other side of the table and rested the painting on the floor so that it leaned against her legs.
Looking between me and the other two staff members - one standing to my left, the other sitting to my right - she said that the woman who had done the painting died the previous night. I put a hand to my mouth as a sob escaped my lips and my seated coworker turned to look at me.
I couldn’t tell my coworker that I had known the painting’s artist from my last job, and that the painting had hung above the office door there. I just stared at the painting as the woman holding it told us that the artist’s last gasping words were to pass the painting on to our office.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I would miss the artist dearly.