The Finest Sable Brushes

I am with Vicky, my stepmother, she is an artist too - a painter - we studied at University together.

I giver her a gift, something to do her oil painting with - a set of the finest sable brushes. But they are even finer than this: they are sacred and we both gaze at them in awe as if at some holy relic.

Under our gaze though the brushes begin to transform. As if some veil had been pulled back they reveal themselves to be nothing but a bundle of cheap pound shop brushes – stubby, frayed, their coarse horsehair bristles all split and splayed. We realize that we were both mistaken as to their true worth.

Vicky looks at me confused and disappointed - “Why so many brushes” she asks “I didn’t want so many”. I say something about having plenty to choose from, to use and to discard – I sense though that this divine gift has become for us both a problem to be disposed of.