The drawer.

She was never without a pencil she always had one about her. Ready at imaginations call. In slight graceful movement, with the flick of her wrist;
she formed the shapes concealed within in her mind.
For she was not eloquent or distinguished an average communicator if not that.
She had no way with words. She had nothing else but this 

The tender ways in which her lines took shape. 

It was almost dance like; the way her hand skimmed back and forth across the page

each time revealing a new dynamic to the drawing.

Yes she had nothing else than this.

But to say that was a pity would be great injustice indeed.

For as musicians play, and singers sing and writers write and dancers dance; her drawings did all these combined and more. For within the many layered lines lay the things of which they are made of.

Her drawings were her language her song and dance but more than than that they were a glimpse into a beautiful mind.