But she would have given anything to be less creative again. To have him back. To see his face. To touch his hand. To watch him walk. To hear him laugh. To listen to his voice.
With each brush stroke on the canvas she thought about life, and about it’s strangeness. Some days the painting calmed her. Some days she could not be calmed by anything.
She chose different colors for the moods that she was in. Dark gray and blue for days when she felt that life was just a bit too harsh. Bright yellow and orange when she missed him terribly and wanted to feel his warmth and cheer. Deep green and red when she wanted to scream at the world through vibrant color.
She felt weak, but wanted to be strong. Life had dealt her so much. Breast cancer at age 44. Breast cancer again at 51. And the health issues of her beloved husband. She had fought a hard fight, and at times painted in various shades of white, a surrender that seemed easy and painless.
For how was she to go on?
Now alone, a young woman. She walked the beach each morning, picking up a shell for each time she thought of her lost love. Thirty nine years they had spent together. She knew of nothing else. No love as great as the love they shared.
She spoke out to him. She felt close to him here. The ocean, so vast and open. She knew he was out there. She knew he was watching. She knew he was listening.
The waves rolled back and forth and wet her bare feet. She collapsed to the ground and released the shells from her grasp.
“Where have you gone?” she cried out, over and over.
Today she would paint in dark gray and blue.
Jennifer A. Fifield