The wind blew gently tickling the old willow, making it sway and shiver. She
stopped for a moment, looked up, and imagined she heard a giggle from it
as she walked beneath the branches. She smiled, shivered a bit herself,
as if she felt the tickle too… Mac breathed in deeply, looked at the
surrounding hills and lake and whispered, “How Beautiful”. I could never
tire of this view. She blew a kiss across the landscape, then carefully
walked down the gentle path toward her home. She and Joe had fallen in
love with this place, so long ago. She looked back at the willow, it waved,
she smiled.
It was getting toward dusk now, and the early spring dampness settled on
her shoulders. Shadows were getting taller as the sun coasted slowly
down to earth over the hill just beyond the lake. It had been a good walk,
she and her black lab Crazy had not walked together for a long time. Her
strength was coming back slowly, and the walking stick helped with her
balance. The stroke had affected her left side, but she was right handed so
that helped in regaining her independence.Taking Lily in to help was not an
easy choice, but this was one time she was forced to admit… she needed
help, a least for a while.
Making her way into the house she said, maybe today, maybe I can begin
again.
She hadnʼt picked up a brush in years. There was a period of time when
she painted a lot, painted still lifeʼs, landscapes and a few portraits as well.
It always took a while to begin, but once she started, it became an untamed
passion. When she painted it seemed to pull the sadness from her, it
breathed a new interest to her day and night. The smell of the oils, mixing
of colors, just so …and the light and the absence of it …. always important.
Once she had begun a painting, the subject consumed her in its tones,
textures,hues. Her eyes darting to the eyes of the subject on canvas,
becoming alive, as she gave light and life to them; or the vases of flowers,
their fragrance, more real with each pedal, each bouquet she created.For
Mac, every painting was a heightening of senses, the taste of fruit, the
smell of a peeled orange, the feel of an antique glass bowl, The rough
touch of bark, and color, rich, soft, subtle colors.This painting, as she
began would bring back the memory of the touch of his skin.
Tonight, over a year since he died, she took out the paints, the esil, the
brushes She set the blank canvas before her, its starkness reminding her of
the loneliness she felt, since he was gone. And so with a photo to guide
her, and memories to carry her, she touched her finger to canvas with the
gentleness of a kiss, tracing an invisible outline of where to begin, how to
begin.There was so much of him to bring to this portrait. So much life to
give it…to create from memory.
Each feature,his soft brown eyes, a glint of light would give them life…and
oh yes, that dimple in his left cheek, that appeared with each smile… or at
the sound of his deep laughter. She smiled to think of his laughter….his hair
full and dark with a bit of untamable curl. The mindless way he would run
his fingers thru it when he was in deep thought.
She studied the photo, a hint of dark shadow,that rough, partially graying
beard. but that expression, so familiar…. one of a slight smile. A strong
jaw, and that tiny scar, when he fell from the old willow. She looked out at
the willow, the old knarly trunk, its roots grabbing hold of the earth…as she
tried to hold the image of his face in her mind….she starred out at the
willow…its long, delicate wispy branches that danced in the breeze and
nearly touched the ground.
She walked to the counter, grabbed the bottle of scotch and carefully
poured herself a drink. She sat down by the island, looked away from the
canvas and out toward that willow. It had seen many seasons, weathered
many storms and felt the warmth of each new spring. It experienced the
changes that a year can bring..endured broken branches…just as the
changes in her life since the stroke, since his death. The memories of their
marriage of 12 years. She raised the glass to her lips, holding it with both
hands. Damn stroke she thought, never felt so weak, so weak and and so
damn needy. How she hated to admit she needed help, but this girl Jill, she
seemed like a good kid. Sweet, and well, she looked like she could use
some help too, Its a temporary she thought, I will be strong and back to
myself again…she took another hard swallow of the scotch. Took the photo in her hands and said You had to do it didnʼt you old man? You had to leave
me first.