Vignettes

Who are we but the amalgamation of a thousand brushstrokes of color on the white canvas?

What are we but pigments reflected in the mind’s eye, a cunning illusion of space and sight?

The shadows seem to validate our presence, and the light is tracing the contours of your face.

You stand still                                                                                                                        with the atlas

of the world                                                                                                                             behind you.

Your left hand                                                                                                                      rests naturally

on the armchair                                                                                                                    in which I sit.

The fingertips of                                                                                                              your right hand

touch the table:                                                                                                                    there is a pen,

an old inkstand,                                                                                                                and some paper

 within your reach.                                                                                                          I know well that

your fingers ache,                                                                                                             itching to write,

but brushstrokes                                                                                                                  hold you back.

You know what                                                                                                                I am thinking of,

and you smile;                                                                                                                        so I smile too,

leaning against                                                                                                                       the reassuring

arm of my chair,                                                                                                                  a book nestling

in my hands.                                                                                                                       Then I stand up

 As the artist turns his canvas towards us. We praise his skill and he praises us for staying still.

He hangs it up on the wall, above the mantelpiece, above the little statuettes we like to collect.

Your left hand slides down and rests on my shoulder, while your right hand encircles the pen.