The Portrait
Chapter 8
After that, Erin and I were inseparable. I found myself falling in love with her, and it scared me. I had never been in love before.
I sit in this worn out chair and I look at the sky.
I imagine that the sky is my soul. Gray, old, forever. Surely that is what a soul is. Forever. Surely when Erin whispered that she would never leave me, she meant it. Why would she lie about that?
Or maybe it wasn't Erin that lied.
I loved Erin and yet she is no longer here.
And after all these years, I have never once pointed the blame. Should it go to her...who left. Or should it go to me....the one that never followed.
But if I was to follow, surely, I would have done so.
I cannot say this is out of my hands. I cannot point a finger. I can only look out the window, my gnarled hands gently resting across my cheeks. These hands use to paint. How long it has been.
I turn my head and I look into a corner of the room. That corner has not been touched....in....I don't know how many years. My paints, my easel, the waiting canvas. They are still there. The only difference from now and that day, is that...the canvas is covered by a sheet, now gray with dust and disuse.
I slowly stand, my bones creaking, my joints aching and I walk slowly to the corner.
I stand, I stand in that corner and I look at my paints. I touch a paintbrush, my fingers caressing it as though they might simply float away. I run a finger down the sheet, my eyes following the path is takes until...
My fingers toy with the hem.
My fingers toy with the hem of the old, but not forgotten sheet. How many hours, days, weeks have I stood here, daring myself to throw back this sheet. This curtain against the pain.
I gasp, my lungs filling with the old dust.
And then, I throw back the sheet.
I throw it back like a circus master would introduce his greatest surprise. The sheet flys off as if has been waiting and it floats to the floor.
Erin's eyes, the only thing finished, stare at me.
She is laughing.
And I feel a single tear course down my face.
How long has it been since I heard her laugh?
I sit in this worn out chair and I look at the sky.
I imagine that the sky is my soul. Gray, old, forever. Surely that is what a soul is. Forever. Surely when Erin whispered that she would never leave me, she meant it. Why would she lie about that?
Or maybe it wasn't Erin that lied.
I loved Erin and yet she is no longer here.
And after all these years, I have never once pointed the blame. Should it go to her...who left. Or should it go to me....the one that never followed.
But if I was to follow, surely, I would have done so.
I cannot say this is out of my hands. I cannot point a finger. I can only look out the window, my gnarled hands gently resting across my cheeks. These hands use to paint. How long it has been.
I turn my head and I look into a corner of the room. That corner has not been touched....in....I don't know how many years. My paints, my easel, the waiting canvas. They are still there. The only difference from now and that day, is that...the canvas is covered by a sheet, now gray with dust and disuse.
I slowly stand, my bones creaking, my joints aching and I walk slowly to the corner.
I stand, I stand in that corner and I look at my paints. I touch a paintbrush, my fingers caressing it as though they might simply float away. I run a finger down the sheet, my eyes following the path is takes until...
My fingers toy with the hem.
My fingers toy with the hem of the old, but not forgotten sheet. How many hours, days, weeks have I stood here, daring myself to throw back this sheet. This curtain against the pain.
I gasp, my lungs filling with the old dust.
And then, I throw back the sheet.
I throw it back like a circus master would introduce his greatest surprise. The sheet flys off as if has been waiting and it floats to the floor.
Erin's eyes, the only thing finished, stare at me.
She is laughing.
And I feel a single tear course down my face.
How long has it been since I heard her laugh?