The Painting

Posted by Robert Anderson On Tuesday, May 19, 2009 0 comments


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I miss the one who painted this for me
 Who told me tales of how it came to be
That car she said belonged to my old man
It spun that curb where all her pain began

She captured in it all that haunted her
For years and years the accident would blur
Her mind and let the alcohol seep in
Affecting me: her very next of kin

I've wished so much that with it she instilled
What dreams within it she had not fulfilled
Though I had learned the poison of that tale
Could act as only a dark and blackened veil

She told me that my father would not die
As long as we would never pray good-bye
I trust within her every word as true
While knowing that my father loved me too
But then one day as peaceful as can be
I found her mixing liquor with her tea
The painting lay across from where she sat
With skin so pale, she fell face first and flat

"Mom!" I yelled with a sharp and worried shrill
My heart froze like the painting's moment; still
She looked up at my face and nodded pride
Then whispered "son, I pray you know inside...

How much I love you with all my heart and soul
Please keep the art I brushed with life so whole
And please remember; always envision me
In all the ways I've sought to guarantee

Through that picture I felt I meant so much
It serves as the extent of life I'll crutch
And now dear son, it's yours; that very painting...
Is all, and you, that still will stand remaining"

And so, I promised as her final words requested
Of which her spirit so undoubtedly attested
To forever keep that painting that she did
As a fixed bridge to every thought she bid

Oh, while it hangs on the wall of my garage
I hear her still as the painting's deep mirage
Echoes truth as if I'd seen today
Her painting life into all her tale portrayed

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