For Amy
Sunflowers
She may be gone, but he could still remember her. He saw her as vividly as he could still hear the gentle drone of conversation in the Café de la Gare, as clearly as he pictured the view from the Atelier.
He could just imagine her as she turned her head slowly towards the sunlight, letting it dance on her hair, shimmering like her laugh. He would stare at her, but his eyes wouldn’t see her for what she was.
She was not a girl. She was his masterpiece, his muse.
But instead he was painting something else that turned towards the light. Something that couldn’t laugh, or smile. But they could dance.
His final, resigned brush strokes dedicate the painting to her, enscribing two words in the corner.
For Amy.
He could just imagine her as she turned her head slowly towards the sunlight, letting it dance on her hair, shimmering like her laugh. He would stare at her, but his eyes wouldn’t see her for what she was.
She was not a girl. She was his masterpiece, his muse.
But instead he was painting something else that turned towards the light. Something that couldn’t laugh, or smile. But they could dance.
His final, resigned brush strokes dedicate the painting to her, enscribing two words in the corner.
For Amy.