The Artist

I take my glasses off to wipe them, unable to read the words before me. After placing them back onto my face, I realize that it changed nothing. What did these words say? My mind doesn't keep up, yet my hand continues to move. Were these words my thoughts? Is my brain trying to protect me? I would've thought that at least focusing on a word would allow me to understand, but it doesn't.

I take a moment to stop. Outside of my window, a flurry of white. It looks like a blizzard. I check the calendar, yet don't know what month it is. It should say it, but there's nothing about it I understand. The snow continues to fall regardless of course. There's nothing I can do about it. I can almost make out a word in the falling snow, I think. There must be a word out there, it looks just like what is written on my paper. Maybe I was drawing the snow?

The snow, how pretty. I end my break and return to drawing the snow outside of the window. The minutes go by, my heart pouring into each stroke. I truly feel at peace. No distractions, no stresses. A wholly wonderful world of just snow and the canvas in front of me, growing with every mark on the paper. My happiness seems to get ahead of me, as I put all of my energy into the last stroke.

I wake up to the door opening. A figure is stood there. Who could it be? She looks at me but I can't feel the emotion. Her face as blank as a fresh canvas. What I wouldn't give to paint her in such beauty. I look down and see the portrait in ruin. It appears I'd fallen asleep whilst I was finishing it. Hopefully she hasn't been standing there too long.

She looks at me and I see something move. She says something that I do not hear. Her lips moving in an all too familiar way, yet such a foreign result. She must be disappointed. I apologize, or I think I do. I try to say "I'm sorry," but the words don't sound how they should. She starts crying, I must not have said it. I try again, and again, to say it. No matter how many times I try, nothing is right. 

One word. That one word, I heard it. She says "love." I finally understand. I repeat the word, but my eyes well up. Why? Love is amazing, I've always felt safe and happy with it. Why is it sad only now? She starts crying more, and wraps her arms around me. For just a moment, I understand.

For one moment, I understand everything. I see there is no snow, there is no portrait, and that my wife is doing all she can for me, yet I can provide nothing in return. And fleeting as that moment is, I return to knowing there is nothing I can give this lady. I tear the portrait. She tries to stop me, but I can not allow it to be seen. 

The portrait, lying in front of me, beckons for me to try again. I grab a new canvas. A lady stands in front of me, I think today I will try to create a portrait. I begin my work, making masterful strokes onto this work of art. She covers her face. I reach up and move her arm to get the details of the face right. She knocks my arm away, turning to the door.

I grab her leg, trying to stop her from leaving. She looks back and it looks like she wants to continue. The sunlight hits her hair perfectly. I think I'm starting to fall in love with this lady, though I don't believe my wife would approve. I get caught up in my appreciation when I'm soon engulfed in romantic feelings. I pick up my pen and resume writing.

As I write this love letter for this person, I do wonder, what would my wife think? Apart from that, what would this lady think? An author writing a love letter right in front of her. I chuckle and sigh, putting my pen down to rest. I decide to come clean, showing her what I was writing, and when I get home I will be showing my wife the same. 

I stand to leave, but the lady stops me. The patter of rain on the roof above warns me to not leave. She sits me back down into my seat and I accept. She leaves after I'm sat down. Left alone, all over again. Too many times has this happened. I think it's time I write an apology of sorts.

About halfway into my apology, a lady enters the room. She's just as beautiful as the last, but who's to say she won't leave me the same way? I think if I could impress her, she would stay. I take up my canvas and my pen and begin to create her portrait. I'm excited, as I can't remember the last time I've made one. It must be obvious, as she takes a moment to stop me and slow me down. Maybe she doesn't like it? She has tears stained on her face, she must hate it.

I throw the portrait away, but she goes to grab it and brings it to me. What does she want me to do with this? I look out the window towards the sun and clouds. Feeling quite inspired, I start drawing them. The beauty of nature is not able to be captured by memory alone. It's our job to make sure it's remembered when our memories fail. The warmth of the sun, the shade of the clouds. I try to get all of it just right. A woman to my right interrupts my drawing. She speaks, yet I do not understand. I hear nothing, but "love." Whether this was a word or total gibberish, I didn't know. Unsure who she is, I go back to my paper. Though the words are hard to make out.

I take my glasses off to wipe them, unable to read the words before me.