Dearest

You are one who introduced me to this world; the raw canvas, my own paintbrush, and freedom of art. You stared at me with intimidation many times when my picture was not turning out perfect. During these times, I lied to you about dents in my brush, imperfect paint, or my exhausted brain. “Why must you lie to me again and again? You will lose me this way,” you stated, time and time again. However, I thought it was important to you to look down upon someone and watch her paint upon your instructions- you would never walk away from me.

This attachment continued as I kept painting with a million excuses alongside my imperfect portraits; excuses that led to violent, scratched, and finally, a destroyed relationship. Today, I saw you amongst the streetlights after many years dressed in a blue shirt and gray pants with a new brush in your hand. You walked along the pavement, hopping over holes in the sidewalk as if you were challenging yourself to be a better person. Today, I saw you pause in thought occasionally as if you knew you were on your own without a student to analyze the canvas with you. Today, I wanted to paint stories that you must have, undoubtedly, been through during these years.

My brushes have now mixed with yours in the paint container. Some mornings, you wake up and play music, relating to your life. In simple boxers, dialing the restaurant number for breakfast. Your hand extends towards my paintbrush and you begin. Using gray, you paint a foundation of cement and the base of a home. Maybe, you are attempting to paint the beginning of your dream. On our canvas.