Painted Memories

It was a chilly day, and the sun teased the edge of the sky with bright hues of orange, yellow, pink, and purple. It was a wondrous sight, the lightness of the sky fading, beckoning ever so slightly the night, it held promise. An old soul sat on the sandy soil that was the beach and stared out at the blended colors that vacated the sky. His eyes held a semblance of longing, of aching. He smiled, small crinkles forming at the edge of his eyes and atop his frail forehead. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath: taking in the salty smell of the warm yet cold breeze, feeling the waves build up just to crash, the white foam fizzing in his ears. It was all so familiar and yet it was all so distant. Memories, or perhaps dreams of the past that had made him feel as if he knew this sorrowful place, a place once filled with the depths of youth, the depths of adventure, the depths of love. He opened his eyes and before him lay a blank canvas, propped up by a silver easel. The canvas was positioned slightly to the right of the setting sun, a perfect amount of light cast across the white slate. Colors danced across the canvas, shadows of the sunset, hints of twilight. It inspired him. 

.     .     .  

The rays of light glinted off the old man's spectacles, tucked gently just below his chin in his chest pocket. The silver rims shined, creating a bulb of gray to appear at the bottom of the canvas. He smiled. Pulling the fragile eyewear from his pocket he secured them on his face. He was granted a new perspective. Within seconds a wooden palette covered in a rainbow complexion, and a neat blue paint brush was in his hands. He dabbed the brush in the colorful  splatter, and reached to paint. His hand paused just before the canvas and his mind flashed with uncertainty, his eyes glazed over, and for a moment he felt lost. Lost in a dreadful feeling of regret and guilt; of longing.  The wind blew, rustling his graying hair, a magical reality seeping into him. It pulled him away from his guilt; a day dreamy state. He closed his eyes and warmth spread through his bones, thawing his regret, and he opened his eyes once more. As soon as the brush touched the canvas, the past and the present blurred together. Soft strokes emitted a brilliant picture, a live film that began softly. Blurs and dots covered the screen, and then numbers counted down, beginning the movie. A black and white picture moved gently, the colors of the painting running the film. The beach blinked into place, and a young woman stood, her back to the camera looking out.  She wore a day dress, a simple cloth with ruffles along the sleeves. Her hair flowed in the wind, a beautiful curl that matched the waves. She turned and smiled. Her eyes glowed with a burning passion, a strong desire that alluded to her dreamland. Twirling her arms out, stoic like an airplane she ran. Ran along the golden ground, sand kicking up behind her. She laughed as she fell to the ground particles of sand clutching to her hair. It was childish how she had danced and twirled, and had fallen. It gave her a warm presence that lured and drew you in. The old man chuckled. He had watched this film so many times. Each time the memories of her flooded his mind making him happy. Happy to have met her. Happy to have taken her hand pulling her up from where she had fallen. Brushing her hair behind her ear, making her blush and giggle. She had been perfect. Perfect in a messy way, and he missed her. He missed how she looked at him, promise held in her amber eyes. Missed the way she pulled him into the water urging him to embrace the cold. Missed her adventurous risky taste. The beach had been an escape and she had been a dream. Everything had been pieced together so perfectly. It had been lovely. The film slowed and the woman turned to face the ocean once more. She reached out her hand, looking at the camera. A younger version of the old man came into the frame grabbing a hold of her and they walked to the edge of the water looking out. The film came to a stop. 

.     .     .  

The old man's  brush strokes had poured out a beautiful detailed scene onto the once blank canvas creating a masterpiece. Hours of work shone vividly upon the canvas. The painting showed a figure of a man standing along the edge of the ocean's water. He was reaching out a hand. Stars twinkled in the painting, the ocean waves frozen in a graceful form. Seashells littered the sand and a singular trail of footprints had been threaded behind the man. It was a perfect reflection of the beach from the film, the beach the woman had danced upon. The man in the painting was alone. No one was coming to grab his hand to walk him across the sandy surface. No one was coming to drag the man into the water. To dance with him, fall with him. No one. The distant sky held a broken promise. It was a poetic call for love. The old man stood, proud of the piece. The sun had faded completely and so had his memories. Just like his palette he had been rid of all color. He had become a blank canvas; all of what he had once known, what he had once created was all lost in the painting. He had rid his mind of those bright moments; there was no longer any light. Time had worn the heartstrings inside of him. The old soul was cracked and broken. Looking to the ocean a melancholy feeling washed over him. She had vanished and so would he.