This was originally a challenge sent to me by JoTracy123, to write a story with three paragraphs and the same opening sentence in each paragraph. Thanks for inspiring me to return to posting.
Thanks also go to Darkflame's Pyre for looking over this at such short notice after I finally plucked up the courage to post.
To those waiting for me to update Born From the Sky, I hope to have a chapter ready soon, thanks for your patience.
Sorry it's short but happy reading x
Virgil had perfected the art. The art of painting that is, he had learned at an early age at the feet of his mother. The crayons were fascinating, the blank paper calling to be coloured in; the striking colours and their printed names had induced him to learn to read, Scott and John dutifully sounding out colour names to him whenever Mom couldn't. It hadn't taken long before he dabbled with her paints.
Virgil had perfected the art. His music was in itself a form of art to him, the purity of the notes and the delicate task of tapping simple tunes on Mom's piano meant instead of being like his brothers and only practicing because he had to had turned into hours of practice, chewing his lip in concentration as he became fiercely determined to get it right to please his mother; a woman who could make the music come alive as it rippled through her fingers into the keys. Virgil longed for the day he'd be like her.
Virgil had perfected the art. The art of living without her, of pouring his despair at her loss into those abilities they once shared, keeping her memory alive for his brothers, however painful it might be. Without music and art, he feared he'd forget her. He'd tried, but had accepted he never would. As long as he played her piano and held a paintbrush or pencil in his hand, the art of living could carry on, his mom could live forever through him. After all music could never die like people could. Music was immortal.