When I was a small girl, I used to spend days on talking to my mum's portrait.
It hanged on not-used corridor, between two abandoned bedrooms and I was extremely pissed with it. She was there all alone, nobody but me visited her and I had a strong feeling that's just not okay. Maybe was too small to understand how painful it was for my family to look at this painting, or maybe I just didn't get it, or this thought never crossed my mind. Never mind. I was very angry at all my loved ones for it.
I climbed stairs every day to see her. I sat on dusted carpet , talked to her about my day, my dreams and things about- in my seven-year-old-self-opinion- mothers and daughters should talk about. Sometimes I stayed silent, but just enjoyed her beauty- ivory, porcelain skin, pink blush on cheeks, dark brown curls and these eyes- these piercing, grey eyes, sparkling with intelligence and sense of humor.
The man who painted this portrait made a good job. This painting was- and still is- really beautiful and I brings out how beautiful she was, when she was 18. Of course, I don't know if she really looked like that- I never saw her- but when I think about this now, I'm sure it's quite good. My dad avoids it. He wouldn't do it, if this girl didn't look like mum.
I grew up looking at this painting, looking at Tessa's Herondale solemn face and wishing to be as beautiful as she used to be. And wishing to make her proud- wherever she is.
