@Mypilot
“Do you remember when we were kids?” she asked me.
I laughed. “Which part?”
“When we swung on the swings,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.
“That happened a couple of times. At the playground, right?”
“Oh, no. Here, let me draw it.”
I shook my head at her as she turned to ask a volunteer for a piece of paper and crayons. We had been friends for many decades now, having grown up in this tiny town together. I don’t know why she didn’t leave, find somewhere more accepting of her. I didn’t leave because I was scared of everything bigger than me. I suppose we were meant to stay here, together.
After my husband died a few months ago, my three children put me in this home. I didn’t mind. They had their own lives to live; two of them had already shared with me their desire to leave this tiny town. After I was placed here, she checked herself in to keep me company. She had no kids and never had a partner. She didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, she never expressed a desire for any relationship. She was perfectly happy with her friendship with me, she told me.
The volunteer had given her a piece of paper that had a crease, showing that is was haphazardly folded before. She was also given two crayons, brown and orange. She did not seem displeased by this.
“Here, let me show you what you’ve so obviously forgotten,” she said, half-jokingly. I rolled my eyes playfully before watching attentively as she drew harsh lines on the paper. “Oh, if only I had a canvas,” she murmured to herself. “My oils and brushes.” She had been a wonderful painter, but she stopped once the arthritis set in.
“It that I tree?” I asked her. “It’s quite large.”
“Oh, hush. It should be much larger than that.”
I watched as she drew crooked lines extending from the branch of the tree. She then drew two forms. I recognized one as me as a little girl and the other as her, looking as she did way back then. It surprised me a little, but I knew her art was honest. Though this one did seem quite outlandish.
“How can we be swinging from a tree branch? That doesn’t sound very logical.”
“Hush,” she scolded, covering the paper with more lines. She didn’t take her eyes off her drawing.
“What that?” I asked.
“What’s what?” she asked, darkening her lines.
“That.” I put my finger on her paper, stilling her hand monetarily.
“That’s a waterfall, of course! I’ve never felt so offended in my life.” She put a hand to her chest, feigning hurt.
I chose to ignore that. “A waterfall?” I asked instead, indignant. “There’s no waterfalls here. There’s no way this actually happened.”
“You have no imagination,” she told me, a smirk starting on her lips. She picked up the orange crayon and started filling in the background. The sky, I presumed. “Can you imagine how beautiful this would be as a painting?” she whispered to me.
I nodded. I truly could.
“Do you remember when we were kids?” she asked me.
I laughed. “Which part?”
“When we swung on the swings,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.
“That happened a couple of times. At the playground, right?”
“Oh, no. Here, let me draw it.”
I shook my head at her as she turned to ask a volunteer for a piece of paper and crayons. We had been friends for many decades now, having grown up in this tiny town together. I don’t know why she didn’t leave, find somewhere more accepting of her. I didn’t leave because I was scared of everything bigger than me. I suppose we were meant to stay here, together.
After my husband died a few months ago, my three children put me in this home. I didn’t mind. They had their own lives to live; two of them had already shared with me their desire to leave this tiny town. After I was placed here, she checked herself in to keep me company. She had no kids and never had a partner. She didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, she never expressed a desire for any relationship. She was perfectly happy with her friendship with me, she told me.
The volunteer had given her a piece of paper that had a crease, showing that is was haphazardly folded before. She was also given two crayons, brown and orange. She did not seem displeased by this.
“Here, let me show you what you’ve so obviously forgotten,” she said, half-jokingly. I rolled my eyes playfully before watching attentively as she drew harsh lines on the paper. “Oh, if only I had a canvas,” she murmured to herself. “My oils and brushes.” She had been a wonderful painter, but she stopped once the arthritis set in.
“It that I tree?” I asked her. “It’s quite large.”
“Oh, hush. It should be much larger than that.”
I watched as she drew crooked lines extending from the branch of the tree. She then drew two forms. I recognized one as me as a little girl and the other as her, looking as she did way back then. It surprised me a little, but I knew her art was honest. Though this one did seem quite outlandish.
“How can we be swinging from a tree branch? That doesn’t sound very logical.”
“Hush,” she scolded, covering the paper with more lines. She didn’t take her eyes off her drawing.
“What that?” I asked.
“What’s what?” she asked, darkening her lines.
“That.” I put my finger on her paper, stilling her hand monetarily.
“That’s a waterfall, of course! I’ve never felt so offended in my life.” She put a hand to her chest, feigning hurt.
I chose to ignore that. “A waterfall?” I asked instead, indignant. “There’s no waterfalls here. There’s no way this actually happened.”
“You have no imagination,” she told me, a smirk starting on her lips. She picked up the orange crayon and started filling in the background. The sky, I presumed. “Can you imagine how beautiful this would be as a painting?” she whispered to me.
I nodded. I truly could.
Whenever I feel blue, I start breathing again.
~L. Frank Baum
+1 FR Time
