All throughout my childhood
there is art on the wall
in the living room.
A charcoal portrait of my parents
made generously by an artist's hand,
my mother's friend's son.
The huge portrait, so imposing
that anyone who enters the room
can't help but admire it.
It was one of our most treasured art.
One of a kind.
We displayed it on the wall,
A reminder of the generosity
of people we befriended.
A proof of the gifts and talents
that people possess.
The subject of the portrait itself
tells a story of youth and grace.
In a blink of an eye,
the beautiful art on the wall
was destroyed
when the flood caught us by surprise.
Even if that art and other treasured
items were lost,
Hope is not gone
It dwells in our hands.
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