I watched you paint a picture every day, down in the basement, curtains drawn, just me and you and your creations. The slow curve of your hand and tilt of your head made me believe in many things – the power of the mind, the possession of the soul. We never spoke of sin or salvation but only which colors were best, Bone White and Scotch Mist, Raw Sienna, Prussian Blue. The last thing you drew was a puzzle, a simple door, with an ornate knob. It was the keyhole that made me ask – so cliché in shape and form, it’s darkness too real, the white paint, chipped and cracked. You answered my question with a nod, then pressed your head into my shoulder, smearing a Cobalt Violet onto my blouse. There was no moon that night when I opened the window. I wanted to yell to the world, but I whispered at the stars. They alone knew our secret, saw the way you lowered the canvas into a box, then stuck it up high on the shelf and promised we’d buy frames.
I sit now, years later, curtains drawn, legs crossed, on this hardwood floor. I stare up at that box and call my husband over to retrieve it. “What’s in here?” he asks, and I just shrug, smile, at least I think I smile. The box is ripped open and it’s contents spill out before my eyes. Three works of art, some loose change, a roll of duct tape, old rags, and a key. While my husband admires the artwork I pick up the key and time unwinds. Somehow the curtains have opened, and the sun has already slid halfway across the dusty floor, halfway up my arm, onto my blouse, it spreads like paint, like an ocean it swallows me in pieces. And I want nothing more than to drown in that light, if only I could, if it would stick, if I could nail it to the wall.
Photo Credit here