5 July 2012
He had to pause to catch his breath halfway up the stair. A rueful smile crossed his lips as he rested there. Cheerful cries from yesteryear go bounding past his knee. A shaking finger wipes a tear from off his grizzled cheek.
He pushes up the last few steps and totters down the hall past the rooms where children slept with teddy bears and dolls. His daughter was arriving soon to help complete his move, but this task was for him alone, his hollow heart to soothe.
The door swung open silently on hinges well maintained. The morning sunlight spilling in through clear and polished panes illuminates the studio, easel and and the chair. The dessicated paint still traps the brushes' fine horsehair.
The canvass, half complete, has stood for over 15 years, a frozen moment, stuck in time, a wormhole linked to her. He still can see her gray flecked hair tied loose behind her neck, an impish wink o'er turned shoulder on cheeks with freckled specks.
But this is now his last goodbye to what had been their home. He has no strength to carry on and get by on his own. He clears away the shadows of her last moments alive and whispers, "Dear, I'm coming soon," with weary, shuttered eyes.
Final Strokes • Opuss № I