…I wonder what he will paint this time.
I am surprised because there is fresh fire in his eyes. I see him glancing at a boy flying his kite with his daddy. I look on as he takes his brush and starts to paint. Different emotions flash through his eyes, but the flame within them is constant and evident. He finishes his painting and he sits there, holding his canvas with a satisfied smile…
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
Today is a new day. Today is another opportunity to paint, another occasion to pour out love, another chance to exhibit passion through the use of oils, brushes, and palettes.
I’ve been quite melancholy these past days. Somewhat caught up with the past which I had thought I had already left behind.
But it’s time to move on. It’s time to keep moving forward.
So now what to paint, what to paint?
There is a young couple having their picture taken, there, in the distance. There is a young girl holding a notebook, wearing a curious expression, there, in a park bench across me. Good subjects. But today, I need something with great depth. Not that the mentioned subjects lack depth. But – I can’t explain it. I. Just. Need. That. DEPTH.
A flash of movement catches my eye. A kite. One moment soaring with the wind. The next moment crashing to the ground.
“Oh no! The kite fell down, Dad! Can we get it back up again?”
“Of course we can, David. Hold up. You hold on to the string and I’ll grab this end right here. You start running at the count of three, okay?”
“Okay, Dad. Ready when you are!”
“Alrighty. Get ready – one – two – three – here we go!!!”
I look on at the father-son tandem. Through perfect coordination, they lift the bright red apparatus high up, up, up into the air.
“Wow, Dad! Look how high it goes!”
“It can still go higher, David. Keep pulling the string. Keep pulling. It needs the tension. There you go. That’s the way to do it.”
The paint is already in my hands, the colours prepared, and I hurriedly grab my brush. I do not want to miss this moment.
I paint swiftly. There is more to this scene than meets the ordinary eye. This scene is rich. There’re so many textures, so many dimensions. I do not want any sort of sluggishness on my part to cause me to miss them. I want to capture all that I could possibly capture in this painting of mine.
I paint the son. I paint the kite. I paint the father. Yes, I paint the father.
I do not let the sting of my fatherlessness bother me. Instead, I become more inspired. My father painted great paintings. And even though he’s gone, by honouring him and his memory, I know my dream of being a great, great painter can be lifted high, high, up into the air.
He has held his end and I had held mine. At one point, we ran together – but then he had to let go. But I mustn’t let go. I must keep holding on. If I don’t hold on to the string, the kite – the dreams – they will just come crashing down.
And I must keep pulling. The tension is awkward, and it is often painful – but it is good, for it lifts the kite – the dreams – even higher. The three paintings next to me represent all those pulls, tugs, and tensions. But I must keep on pulling. I must keep on tugging. The kite needs to go up higher.
With a final stroke, I finish the painting with great flourish.
I take the finished work into my hands and sit here, marvelling at its depth and richness. My lips curl up into a satisfied smile.
But then my reverie is interrupted by a kind, yet somewhat curious voice.