Painted Memories

Hurried steps echoed in the still silence. A boy of seven rushed up the stairs all pale and shuddering. A hunt for a particular object or a desperate attempt to escape from a gruesome foul creature had taken him to the attic was not quite clear as his breathing was intensified, pupils heavily dilated, and yet he projected an air of single-mindedness that suggested intent, not chance wandering had led him to the dusty garret. Indeed, something much worse was lurking in the rooms below, ghastlier than a regular boogieman and much more appalling than a haunting nightmare. 

Heaps of long-forgotten once useful items had found refuge under the sturdy beams of the timber roof truss. Layers of dust indicated years of negligence and solitude. The creamy streaks of white in the light red of the juniper trunk that reposed in the far left corner of the place quickly caught the boy’s eye. A bronze plaque with his family’s initials on the heavy lid stood in confirmation that the heirloom chest had been in actuality the aim of the expeditious quest. 

The boy’s steps left a trail on the unswept floor as he made for the object of his interest. Promptly, the few contents of the trunk lay before his eyes. A framed photo of a woman was on top, what was beneath did not seem to concern the boy at present as his gaze sank into the image. His dear mother, who was currently quietly lying in her bed downstairs, looked as beautiful as she always did. The nuances of black and white successfully portrayed the unique features of the beloved face. Her smile – heartfelt and warm – was his safest haven. If ever he had imagined what angels might look like, he was certain it was close to what he was holding in his hands. 

A small piece of canvas jutted from the lower right corner of the frame. Soon enough, the piece was pulled out, turning out to be much bigger than what its initial appearance had let on. An edginess and stifled discontent took over the boy as his focus was shifted from soaking in each feature of the woman in the photo, imprinting it in his mind forever, keeping her close for as long as he could; to a blasé examination of a trivial object. 

To his genuine surprise, the canvas was empty apart from a set of eyes that instantaneously absorbed his attention. What marvellous eyes they were – deep, kind and welcoming, as if magically tugging at his heartstrings. Grief, anxiety and pain suddenly left the boy and he felt a certain calmness that he had never known before. A strange power was as if calling to him and he knew he could stay there and peer into those eyes for an eternity. Tempting it was to remain a stranger to sorrow and bitterness for the rest of his life and yet, another voice was commanding him to return to the photo. Two overwhelming emotions were surging in the little boy’s heart. 

Torn between his mother’s photograph and the mysterious canvas, he trembled as hot tears started rolling down his cheeks. Only the brave ones make it in life, his father would say each time a bruised knee or an unfair scolding had summoned tears into the boy’s eyes. Little by little, the child had mastered the will to suppress the treacherous waterworks seen as a sign of weakness of character. One final hot drop put an end to his turmoil. 

Looking away from both sources of emotional tumult, the boy sought solace in the only other object that was to be found in the wooden trunk – a simple notepad of plain white paper it must have been, but years of oblivion had put their mark on it: the edges of the pages were rough to the touch, the sheets had acquired an uneven beige tone and there were occasional traces of water in queer faded circles. The aesthetic value of the pad was the last thing on the boy’s mind. Frantically, he flipped the cover and having procured a small pencil from the pocket of his waistcoat, he devoted himself to sketching. Stroke after stroke, the work engulfed the boy, albeit he was not quite certain what it was that he was drawing. After a while, a loving face was looking back at him from the page. 

Unintentionally, trying very hard not to think of her, he had still drawn a portrait of his mother – the way he used to see her every night when she tucked him in and read an enchanting story of fairy lands, brave heroes and noble deeds. A strand of her blonde hair would cascade down her face and tickle him gently when she kissed him goodnight. 

A tad mad at himself for having yet again reminded himself of his mother, the boy sighed and rested his eyes first on the photo and then the canvas. The photo was still just as beautiful, the set of eyes on the canvas, however, had added, it seemed to the incredulous child, a tinge of the turquoise of the ocean to their previous palette of blues. Dubious, the boy took up the pencil and not daring to let the canvas out of his sight quickly drew a ball, followed by a flower, a sun, a tree…nothing changed in the eyes. He shook his head as if to confirm that the thought that had crossed his mind was indeed just as absurd as it could be. 

Having put the canvas and the pad back into the chest, photograph safely stored outside its frame and into his pocket, he carefully closed the lid and left the room with a faint glimmer of hope in his heart. Alas, his mother was lying in her bed just as sick as he had left her. Nothing magical had cured her, so he spent her final few hours by her side. Holding on to the photo of hers, the little boy promised himself he would try and help others keep their loved ones as close as they could for as long as possible – a promise that led to five years of art school and three more in an elite college quite far from home. 

The little boy grew up and invested all his efforts into drawing the most truthful portraits of people – people he met on his long travels across cities teeming with life, towns of unique character and picturesque countryside; of people he ran into in obscure pubs and questionable hostels. Had he the time, he offered to paint a portrait of any stranger at any chance encounter. Most times he was rewarded for the beautiful memento of a holiday or a moment shared with friends that he created, be it with a genuine smile or a handful of money. A girl of about ten once gave him a conch she was so proud for having found entirely on her own, but was happy to gift to him ecstatic with the portrait of her beloved grandfather. Invariably, the young man painted what he saw, paying meticulous attention to the tiniest details; each time pouring his heart into his work. 

Year after year, the once little boy aged into a benign senior who had seen the sunrise in countless countries and the stars of a myriad of night skies. Mundane trifles do have a nasty habit of occupying one’s creative time, and on a casual Monday, a cold call sent the old man back to his parents’ house on a rather unpleasant quest. The place was to be sold and needed to be emptied of all things valuable or not. 

The attic is not a typical choice for the start of such a task, but there was certain curiosity burgeoning out of control in the man’s mind. Hurried steps, as quick as his age allowed, took him up to the same old dusty room. A warm feeling, such as when meeting a dear friend, filled his heart. Upon lifting the lid of the trunk, a gasp of surprise escaped his lips. The scruffy notebook to the right had become all the more yellow, but it was the piece of canvas that had caused the heaving of his chest. The two warm kind eyes, as omniscient as he remembered them - for he had never really forgotten their gaze engraved in his heart so many years ago, were alone no more. They now stood part of a finished portrait of exquisite virtuosity - artistry that far exceeded his own captivating with a power manifold that of the eyes before. 

The portrait was of a man he was certain he had never seen, and yet felt like he knew him well. He was holding a splendid pearly conch in one of his hands. A caramel shade in the man’s blond hair suddenly made the artist reminiscent. His fiancé’s skin was of that particular tinge of colour, he could clearly remember mixing and blending his paints to get to that luminous sweet aspect of brown and tan when he was drawing her first portrait that hot day in Cuba. 

And then a whole palette of colours and a whole lifetime of drawing danced before his eyes. He could recognise each and every shade used for the portrait in front of him. He sat down and smiled, thinking of his mother whom he was joining in an instant. The portrait of his soul was emanating with the purest of light for the purest of lives – that devoted to making others appreciate the people and the love they have in their lives before the most loathsome of villains sends them running up stairs in pursuit of some artefact that would forever remind them of what they had, but lost to eternity.