Objects take on a new life in the plain, light rooms. The rich grains and delicate inlay of Mother’s writing desk stand out for the first time. It is as if I am learning to see again. Colors radiate against the white walls, so that one of Mother’s Indian shawls thrown over the back of a sofa, or a red rug unrolled on the hearth, suddenly fills a room. There are surprises. Leatherbound volumes from Father’s library look sumptuous on the simple wooden shelves. I unpack Mother’s photographs and after an hour of trying them in different places, decide to hang them in the hall. I see unexpected angles, unknown facets of her face. Even the past figures differently in the new space.

A wall of orange ablaze in the sun, the glow of hot coals. My colors have the sheen of silk, the rough textures of Hessian. In the top right-hand corner of my painting is a pale pink square, edged in blue. The clash between the pink and orange is violent, compelling, gorgeous. I mute it by adding a daub of white to the pink, but only slightly. I do not want to diminish the effect. On the left of my canvas I paint a series of rectangles. Some interconnect, some stand alone. I paint two of them blue—one a potent aquamarine, the other paler and tempered with the same hint of whiteness as the pink. I am careless with the outlines. I have had too many years of cloying detail. What interests me is the impact of the color. I want the immediate sensation, the unbroken panorama of shape and tone as you first enter a room.

In the center of my picture I paint a single rectangle. It is a rich, crimson red with traces of darker vermilion. It dazzles and sizzles against the orange. It is the corollary of Father and I revel in its daring. I turn my attention to the two remaining bars. I paint one green, a blue sage, slightly chalky. For the other I choose a strong burgundy.

I am fascinated by the way the different reds shun and call to each other. Sometimes, when I stand back from my canvas, I can see nothing else. The way the orange recedes against their impact astonishes me. I cannot believe the past has already lost its power. I turn my attention to my central rectangle. I am audacious. I will create the space I need. I will be mistress in my own house.

I did not forget you. I wrote to you every day. I implored you to eat well and rest, the doctors’ litany. I made a study for you, found you a desk and chair, arranged your books. At the same time, I was grateful to Violet for taking you. I could not have coped with your convalescence on my own.