Her Life in Art

The frigid winter breeze bites a warm rosy pink into his cheeks. The air gracefully carries itself across his face, slitting his chapped lips further. He prepares himself for a walk to the coffee shop, making his way down the paved driveway stuffing his hands deep into his denim pockets. Dried leaves and twigs crunch and crack beneath the heavy weight of his worn brown boots. With each step his keys rattle in his back pocket, the same way the wind chimes that hung at her front door did. Approaching the cafe, there are children choking on chuckles at the playground, while their parents sip coffee and bury themselves in gossip. Occasionally they look up and remind their child to stop running so fast, tie their shoe, or keep their jacket fastened so that they don’t catch a cold. Peter’s thoughts drown in the town chatter, a temporary solution to keep his mind at bay, as he treks steadfast toward the cafe.

As he approaches, he stretches his arm for the door, wrapping his numb fingers around the crisp metal handle, and pulls the door open, sounding off the bell. Through the sound of the bell, Peter finds himself at Laura’s front doorstep again beneath the copper windchimes for the final time. Laura’s neighbor, Jean, would smile sweetly at him from her front yard, while she tended to her bed of roses, a routine they had when he’d come over in the evenings. She was an older lady, always on a tangent about her grandchildren. Peter always came bearing flowers, Tulips and Baby's-breath, Laura’s favorite. Before she’d answer the door, a conversation usually spark between him and Mark, her other neighbor, usually about the state of his lawn.

Paralyzed within the walls of his memories, his fingers fumble with her ring in his back pocket, as he stands in the doorway of the coffee shop. He’s hoisted back into reality after a few failed attempts of the barista trying to draw his attention. He has frequented the coffee shop since Laura’s death, hoping it will get easier. His world went stagnant, freezing in the void she left behind. Wistful thinking clings to the hope that routine will be what keeps him tethered to his sanity through the turbulence of the waves of sorrow that engulf him. He bathes in old memories drenched in melancholy. He orders her favorite drink just to feel the smallest bit closer to her. The coffee keeps him warm, but his loss keeps him colder. He makes sure not to stay long – his grief derails him. However, he always comes back to the place he knew she loved most, like she’d be there one day waiting for him.

On his walk back home he sips on the heated hazelnut latte, letting the hot cup sear the skin on his right hand. In his left hand, he holds her last picture. He finds his thumb caressing the photo gently, the same way he used to rub her cheek before she’d fall asleep. He would trade his life for hers. A slave to his memories of how her velvet smooth skin felt beneath his, and the way her hair feathered his face when they’d retire to bed. Peter approaches his driveway, ignoring the mailbox spewing out letters of condolence following his dearest Laura’s funeral, heading toward his shed.

The sunlight penetrates the windows illuminating the interior of the cream paneled shed. Frost settles on the white roof blanketed in a thin coat of dirt and dried branch. He opens the door and enters his sanctuary, guarded by the beauty of his craftsmanship. Paintings hang from each of the four walls upholding his haven. Paint crusts on top of the concrete floor. Cups of turbid paint water are scattered around the room, next to easels that stand proud bestowing his work before him. A light dusty film of graphite and colored chalk smudges the wooden table where he works. The room is inert and entombed in stillness despite the untidiness around it. Everything was in the same place he left it in weeks ago, unmoved and indifferent to his greatest loss. He reaches for his bucket of clay inside the cabinet next to the rusted metal sink. He places it on his sculpting stand, eyes stinging as tears begin to well. He keeps a blade and a spray bottle near, in case the clay begins to dry out. He presses his thumbs inward, forming two deep circles in the clay. He strokes around them gently, each touch driven by intention and infelicity. He traces the clay from top to bottom with the pads of his fingertips, the same way he would trace her head from forehead to chin before their lips would embrace. He pushes inward between the eyes forming a dent, and uses his index fingers to guide the bridge of what would be her nose. He makes sure to include the bump that rested on her bridge, which she hated, and that he loved. He massages the clay further, introducing the shape of her plump pouty lips. With a heavy heart, he continues attentively captivated by detail. Tears moisten the clay selfishly fulfilling the duty of the spray bottle.

After about an hour, her face emerges through the gray dullness of the clay. His thumb strokes are imprinted on her face. He sits for a while next to the sculpted face of his lover. For a moment, the dull clay brings her back to life. He can see Laura’s brown eyes lit by flames and small speckles of amber. He can hear her laugh echo through the depths of his mind. His nose is filled again by her warm lilac perfume. He even finds himself smiling, indulging in the brief moments of her restoration of life. He wipes the wetness of his face, smearing clay across it in the process. The sunlight that filled the room gradually dissipates and cowers behind the clouds. He watches the clay dehydrate as vein-like cracks travel her face. The flame that briefly blazed her eyes he sculpted withered away, leaving him again in his dark pool of anguish. Laura’s death left the fibers of Peter’s existence frayed. The dehydrated clay sculpture unapologetically mocks his meek attempt to sculpt life, and desperation to gain control in the chaos of his grief. With tears filling every tired wrinkle on his face, he rests his head on his work table next to his creation. His body finally slackens accepting the break from carrying his heavy head on his shoulders. Peter’s soul is fatigued by the constant ache since Laura’s absence. Two months elapsed, but to Peter, it feels as if it was just yesterday that he was drifting to sleep tangled in Laura’s arms – or like it was just yesterday that his world was ripped away.