Fact or Fiction?

I've been reading a lot lately. Fiction. Stories. My mother isn't a fan of fiction. I remember my entry into the adult world of reading via the public library. My mother brought me through Dr. Seuss, the Freddy the Pig detective series and the Black Stallion books. After these, it was time for biographies and real life historical novels. I read about American slavery, the Canadian fur trade and the concentration camps of World War II. To my mom, the real stories were more relevant than fiction. They could teach one more about the world. My mom could draw. She can draw. Very well. Although she is blind as a sightless cat when her glasses are off, she can transform the blur she sees while looking at a pile of dirty laundry into a tigress nursing it's babe. She doesn't explore her art though. Well, that's not entirely true. She can reorganize furniture and plants so a plain room is made into a designer's dream. Growing up I remember my room being rearranged at least twice a month. Her landscaping abilities are incredible as well. Her art is used as a utility. It's a tool. She likes things to be pretty. Done. Real. I am drawn to mess. Rebellion? My cupboards and drawers are in a constant limbo between order and chaos. I want things to be neat but I get satisfaction when things are in disarray. Dust bunnies are allowed under my beds. I don't wash walls and ceilings twice a year (once every 2 if I'm lucky). I like curling up and tuning out the world around me as I read. Other worlds. Fictional worlds. Worlds that really do teach one about real life. And art.