My poem for this painting:

For a long time, she gave herself away in small pieces —
to the marriage, to the children, to the work,
to whoever needed her most.
Until she had almost forgotten
the woman she was.

But something within her had not forgotten.
It had kept watch, faithfully waiting.
Gently whispering to her:
Remember the way you love beauty.
The tender things that move you.
Remember the essence of what makes you 'you'.

Like the soft breath of a fan on a warm afternoon,
like the sweetness of a rosebud unfurling —
the parts of herself that had long ago been put on hold
began to open; her tenderness, her possibility, her becoming.

And what had seemed finished was not finished at all.
She realised: it was only just the beginning.