Brush After Brush

       “But it’s so soon. I thought we would have the whole summer at the least.” Cillian paced up and down the room, stopping briefly to light a cigarette held between two shaking fingers. He took an exaggerated drag, inhaling the smoke into his bones. “It’s a surprise to me as well, darling.” Emily tried to focus her attention on the warm sensation of the water or the sudsy sliding sound of the sponge while she cleaned the dishes. “Damn fool’s errand,” he mumbled, the rolled tobacco butt now situated between his lips as he packed an overnight bag. “Getting involved with foreign affairs always is. I reckon at the least it won’t be a long war.” “How could you even assume such a matter,” Emily responded absently, she felt hot tears beginning to prick her eyes. A sensation that was common to her, and one that had lost its foreign touch long ago. She still vaguely recalled the blurred lens that tears created in her vision as a young child. She often wondered how long it would be till that memory completely vanished from her mind. “Em...” Cillian paused, “I won’t be gone long, I will be back to you.” He walked up close to her now, her back still facing him from the kitchen sink, a tear lightly splashing into the water every few moments. “You will,” she managed. He wrapped his long arms around her now, finding her hands and squeezing them tightly. She squeezed back; these sensations were everything to her. “I have to get going Em, my train departs in less than an hour.” She slowly turned to face him, reaching a hand up to his face she felt her fingers contact his cheek bone. Little by little she traced them down, letting his uneven stubble guide her to his lips. When she reached them, she began an outline with her fingers, creating an image in her mind. There were times when she wondered exactly what those lips looked like, such as when he smirked or spoke in his soft Irish lilt. They often seemed unreal, like something she could only fully conceptualize in a dream. She remembered asking him once to describe them to her, hearing the awkward tone in his voice following, “they’re just lips, darling.” Cillian gently placed his hand in hers and brought it back down to her side. He kissed her fully. “Paint me something grand, savor every detail as only you can.”

“Yes,” Emily replied quietly.

“I must go now, I love you.”

“I love you too, bring me back something I can feel.”

“As I always do,” he smiled, put his hat on and awkwardly made his way out of the tiny home. Emily had grown accustom to this way of exit; they both knew by this point that no amount of comforting could calm her completely.

           She had begged for a cozy home by the ocean after their marriage. Cillian had been reluctant initially, being a native to the rolling green hills that blanketed Glendalough.  Yet, he did not refuse for long; it soon became apparent to him how much her physical experiences encompassed her. The coast would be her grounding force close to home.

She always found it difficult to stay in a house alone, even when she still possessed her vision as a child. Too many tight angles, too little space to feel free. Even when she painted, she would drag her large wooden easel far along the sand-covered landscape, toward the ocean coast. Just as meaningful as her stroke hand was the salt scented breeze on her face and the packed sand that clung to her feet. They allowed her to feel human and present when her emotions threatened to consume her. They also enabled her to paint. As a young girl, she treasured the feeling that accompanied finger painting. The art that followed was simple, but she enjoyed looking upon her creation just the same. It was her own. It felt so special to have created something guided by her touch. The loss of her vision soon after derailed much in her life, but painting remained. She would learn to distinguish between different colors by using special textured paint, feeling the unique consistency of each color against her fingertips. Using raised lines, she would also learn to find her placement on a canvas and to guide her brushstrokes with meticulous fingers. Touch had become just as much a sense of sight as she had ever previously known.

Sitting alone now briefly, she never let it be more than brief, Emily began her ritual. Cillian seemed to be away so frequently it ran like clockwork in her brain now – grabbing a blank canvas from the dusty side closet, bundling up all her painting essentials, mindfully walking them out towards the coast, feeling for the right spot to inspire creativity, returning back to the house to grab Weasel – “Such creativity in naming your easel, darling,” Cillian had teased – dragging it with forced affection back to her golden spot, and then painting.

She brushed with one hand, the other tracing the deep curved line protruding from the canvas. All tension spilled out, her colorful feelings bleeding into a creation all her own. She could feel it all – the wind, sand, and sensational flow befriending one another, cohesively channeling out from the tip of her brush. As she moved from one far side of the canvas to the other, she shifted her weight to the next foot, feeling all the grainy earth had to offer, turned her head at odd angles to catch the breezy air off guard, and let the warm radiant kiss of the sun reflect through her onto the canvas. In this moment, the anxiety and terror of life ceased to exist. It had no place in the present, in the breath between strokes. Brush after brush, she let the sensations wash over her, focusing on the only thing that mattered, what she felt in this moment. Brush after brush.