Her mother is an artist. Even in the recent months, after the accumulation of cataracts had taken her sight, she still paints. On sunny days, it’s her job to guide her mother to her canvas somewhere in their two-and-a-half-acres garden.
There, she’d paint until dinner. Sometimes, she would even paint through dinner. “I’m like Sherlock Holmes sometimes,” she once remarked. “When he’s on a case, he wouldn’t eat or sleep until he solves the mystery. Me, too. I can’t do anything else until my masterpiece is complete.”
“Mom, time for dinner,” She called one day walking through the gardens. As she approached, she heard sobbing. “Mom?”
There she was, sitting on her chair, crying into her hands. “Who am I kidding? I can’t see a thing. Let’s face it, my life is over.”
She wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders, “Oh, your life isn’t over. You just have to do things differently now that you’ve lost your sight.”
“You really think so?” She sniffed.
“Just think about what Sherlock Holmes would do.”