Nothing But Canvas
It was nothing but canvas, the old man was certain of that. God knows he’d stared at it long enough. It didn’t take a close inspection to see the weave of the fabric itself, where the artist had used the cloth as if it were paint.
But there was something about the painting. It pulled at him, at his memory, as if something was misplaced, just out of reach. The moon tugged at him slowly, quietly, inexorably.
“Sir, sir!” Someone was shouting at him. “Sir, you can’t cross the tour line!”
He looked down at the blue line taped to the floor and then at the too-little guy in the oversized uniform shirt and the silly whale hat. “I... I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. The painting…” His voice was strained but quiet, almost pleading.
“Yes, sir.” The tour guide smiled. “This particular work evokes a response in many of our visitors. Most do not want to approach it, however.” The little guide lifted his chin and raised the lilt of his voice. “And we are walking!”
The group moved off with their guide leading them. Hundreds of other artifacts of the long-dead ocean lay in wait, each with a fascinating story of its own. The old man lingered, shuffling as if he would follow, but not quite accomplishing the task.
The group entered an adjacent hall and the old man doddered over to study the painting. He stepped carefully over the forbidding stripe and walked up close. The stars--some of them were painted but some were made by scarring the paint from the canvas, creating a hole in the medium right down to the white cloth substrate.
His eyes naturally fell along the image, through the moon and to the silhouette of what was, perhaps, a young woman. Her back was to him as she leaned on one arm, her gaze toward the fullness of the moon. Her hair was captured in a dance of ocean wind, her free hand raised to hold it from her face.
He reached out a wrinkled finger and stroked her flowing hair. He knew its smell, somehow, and with eyes closed he breathed it in deeply. He smelled it clearly--salty, yes, but with a sweetness akin to honey. He could almost taste it.
Absentmindedly, he drew his finger along the outline of her shoulder, not-quite remembering lost smells, missed tastes. Something here was familiar, just below his awareness. Inside, he felt connected to this scene, to this woman.
Who was she? She seemed so familiar. She was that song he could almost remember. He didn't know the words, or the name. He didn't know the melody, only the feelings.
His eyes traveled up past the moon to the dug-out stars again. He reached up and gingerly stroked a circle around one, then placed the pad of his fingertip directly on top of it. Stretching his fingers out, he found he was able to place a finger over five of the deep-cut stars. A little to the left were another five dug-outs.
Instinctively, without thinking anything more about it, he placed the outstretched fingers of his free hand into the empty voids of the stars. The clothes of an old man fell to the floor.
He is on a beach and she is with him. The song envelops him, and it needs no name. Its words are eternity. How long he’d been gone and why are not questions; there is only the Here, only the Now.
They relax on their beach of serenity, sharing all-that-is through their eyes. He leans back beneath the eternal full moon, takes in the beauty that is his never-ending answer, and blows her a kiss.
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