Will you tell me about her?”
“Who? Sylvie?” Perplexed, I wonder why this beautiful woman would have any interest in my dead wife.
“Yes. What was she like?” There’s genuine interest in her question. I don’t see any ulterior motive other than her possibly wanting to give me an outlet to speak freely of someone I love dearly. To honor her memory by sharing it with someone else.
“You really want to hear about her?”
“Absolutely.” The excitement on her face puts a smile on mine.
I tell her the good and the bad, although there was little bad. She had annoying habits like leaving her makeup all over the counter in the bathroom, or when I was in a bad mood, she’d poke the shit out of me until I got so mad I started laughing. I miss her throaty voice, her jazzy old soul. I miss the way she could brighten every day, but more than anything, I just miss the way she loved me. She accepted flaws and all, and in a way, that made me feel she cherished even the negative. She never complained, even in her death, and everyone adored her. I think most of our friends were around because they wanted to be close to her. I just got the benefits of her being my wife. Even when she knew she was dying and in constant pain, she never uttered an adverse word.
Sera doesn’t ask for details about how Sylvie died, which is a relief. I’m not sure I’m ready to relive those memories just yet, but I’m sure at some point, I’ll have to tell her. Those months changed me. They made me angry and resentful, then they just left me desolate and without fight. The truth is, I can’t blame it all on her illness or her death. I’ve made the choice day in and day out to allow it to consume me, to wallow in self-pity, immerse myself in death.
When she died, she took the best of me with her.
10
T alking about Sylvie makes my hand ache in a way only an artist can understand. The need to get home to create is so prominent that the last half hour of dinner with Sera is a blur, as is the ride home.
I sprint from the car into the house, tearing through the closets looking for the supplies Nate and I bought, finally finding a canvas and paints. I have no fucking easel, but I do have a hammer and nails. With four nails securely in the frame, it’s now on the wall, preventing movement. Blue is calling to me, every shade I can possibly come up with, combining, mixing those I already have. I don’t think. I allow my hand to move, my fingers to swipe excess from the subject. My knife creates lines and pushes the oils into waves.
I lose myself in the work; the darkness fades as morning rises. My eyes are blurry, weary. The painting isn’t complete, but I literally can’t see to continue. Stumbling to bed, I collapse, and slumber instantly takes me over.
The alarm jolts me from my sleep. Sitting straight up in a panic, I wonder what’s on fire before it dawns on me the incessant noise isn’t a fire alarm going off, but the clock next to my bed reminding me to get my ass up to meet Ferry. Having been off the grid for five years, suddenly having obligations is a tough routine to get in to. My eyes sting from lack of sleep, but I feel the same fire coursing through my body, the burn of art waiting to escape. I can’t help but accept the foreign feeling of excitement. With a hint of a smile and a little pep in my step, I start the day.
I grab my jeans and T-shirt, make my way to the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth, and pass by the painting I started last night. I stop to look at her. She reminds me of Picasso’s Blue Nude —the tone, not the visual. I feel the same desperation and sadness. Neither woman’s face is visible, but with arms outstretched, head back, and knees slightly bent, I feel the despair of my lady in the same way I feel that of Picasso’s. She’s thin, almost frail, as though life’s cruel. Studying her, I see how much my work is changing. I worried with the time that passed, my technique would’ve suffered,
“Who? Sylvie?” Perplexed, I wonder why this beautiful woman would have any interest in my dead wife.
“Yes. What was she like?” There’s genuine interest in her question. I don’t see any ulterior motive other than her possibly wanting to give me an outlet to speak freely of someone I love dearly. To honor her memory by sharing it with someone else.
“You really want to hear about her?”
“Absolutely.” The excitement on her face puts a smile on mine.
I tell her the good and the bad, although there was little bad. She had annoying habits like leaving her makeup all over the counter in the bathroom, or when I was in a bad mood, she’d poke the shit out of me until I got so mad I started laughing. I miss her throaty voice, her jazzy old soul. I miss the way she could brighten every day, but more than anything, I just miss the way she loved me. She accepted flaws and all, and in a way, that made me feel she cherished even the negative. She never complained, even in her death, and everyone adored her. I think most of our friends were around because they wanted to be close to her. I just got the benefits of her being my wife. Even when she knew she was dying and in constant pain, she never uttered an adverse word.
Sera doesn’t ask for details about how Sylvie died, which is a relief. I’m not sure I’m ready to relive those memories just yet, but I’m sure at some point, I’ll have to tell her. Those months changed me. They made me angry and resentful, then they just left me desolate and without fight. The truth is, I can’t blame it all on her illness or her death. I’ve made the choice day in and day out to allow it to consume me, to wallow in self-pity, immerse myself in death.
When she died, she took the best of me with her.
10
T alking about Sylvie makes my hand ache in a way only an artist can understand. The need to get home to create is so prominent that the last half hour of dinner with Sera is a blur, as is the ride home.
I sprint from the car into the house, tearing through the closets looking for the supplies Nate and I bought, finally finding a canvas and paints. I have no fucking easel, but I do have a hammer and nails. With four nails securely in the frame, it’s now on the wall, preventing movement. Blue is calling to me, every shade I can possibly come up with, combining, mixing those I already have. I don’t think. I allow my hand to move, my fingers to swipe excess from the subject. My knife creates lines and pushes the oils into waves.
I lose myself in the work; the darkness fades as morning rises. My eyes are blurry, weary. The painting isn’t complete, but I literally can’t see to continue. Stumbling to bed, I collapse, and slumber instantly takes me over.
The alarm jolts me from my sleep. Sitting straight up in a panic, I wonder what’s on fire before it dawns on me the incessant noise isn’t a fire alarm going off, but the clock next to my bed reminding me to get my ass up to meet Ferry. Having been off the grid for five years, suddenly having obligations is a tough routine to get in to. My eyes sting from lack of sleep, but I feel the same fire coursing through my body, the burn of art waiting to escape. I can’t help but accept the foreign feeling of excitement. With a hint of a smile and a little pep in my step, I start the day.
I grab my jeans and T-shirt, make my way to the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth, and pass by the painting I started last night. I stop to look at her. She reminds me of Picasso’s Blue Nude —the tone, not the visual. I feel the same desperation and sadness. Neither woman’s face is visible, but with arms outstretched, head back, and knees slightly bent, I feel the despair of my lady in the same way I feel that of Picasso’s. She’s thin, almost frail, as though life’s cruel. Studying her, I see how much my work is changing. I worried with the time that passed, my technique would’ve suffered,
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