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She tucked a strand of gray hair behind her ear as she dipped her brush in the paint. Her hand trembled as she put brush to canvas. She’d gotten used to the trembling, embraced it, even. She liked to think that her body was so excited to still be alive that it couldn’t contain itself on the inside any longer.

She loved to create. Beauty from the heart was the only way she measured her paintings. In her 91 years she’d honed this skill… the skill to see beauty, the skill to place things exactly where they deserved. Names didn’t matter, class didn’t either, it was just… a matter of perspective.

She finished the painting and took a step back. She smiled, her wrinkles taking their familiar places after years of laughing. At first glance this painting was… not breath taking. It didn’t look like the edges were finished and if you didn’t look hard enough the colors didn’t seem to mix. But oh, the depth.

Other friends, knowing her love for art, had bought famous paintings for her. Some were originals, some were copies... but all were highly sought after pieces, by the world’s standards. She picked up the painting and slowly walked over to the wall. With trembling hands she lifted it up and placed it among the others. She made sure that the painting wasn’t above and wasn’t below the one next to it. It was equal. It was just as good. “You deserve to be here,” she told the painting, patting it for reassurance.

Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she turned and slowly walked away.