Rembrandt

The Husband’s best friend lives in Sweden. How his best friend lives in another country, on another continent, is another blog post.

For now, I want to share the story I was reminded of by Pictures, Poetry and Prose, when we visited his family a couple of years ago.



I’ve always loved art and have a true appreciation for the gift some people are given to bring life to pencil and paint. I am especially fond of the classics: Monet, Van Gogh, Rembrandt.

While in Sweden, we visited the National Museum in Stockholm. Knowing we were only interested in certain works, we carefully planned our visit, analyzing the visitor’s map, setting out our own personal tour. As with most art museums, each room was dedicated to either an artist or a particular period, with small foyers separating each area.

The Husband was reading the map, leading the way, and I simply wandered behind him, awed at the paintings I was seeing.

I glanced over my shoulder to see The Husband disappear around a corner. I followed him and found myself in a tiny darkened foyer. To my left was the entrance to a larger, brightly-lit room in which hung enormous paintings, at which The Husband was already gazing. I was about to follow him, when something caught my eye. The walls in this foyer were barren except for a glass-enclosed case to my right. I turned to look and the air rushed out of me as I gasped.

There, before me, was one of Rembrandt’s self-portraits, one he painted in 1630. It suddenly hit me—where I was, what I was experiencing. These were works I had only seen in books and slides in classrooms. Here I was, standing amidst paintings that were brushed hundreds of years ago, by legendary artists. Overcome with emotion, I began to tear and I stood like a fool gaping at this incredible artistry.

As I’m standing alone in this darkened room, gazing at the portrait, in walk four Chinese tourists. They do the same thing I did. They walk in, all gibbering to each other then stop cold as they see the self-portrait. There’s a moment of silence as it registers, then they all start chattering excitedly to each other in Chinese. Clearly, they can’t believe it either and are equally impressed. They see me—the only other person in the room—and point excitedly at the painting. I smile and nod with them, the excitement clear on my own face, I’m sure. They gather around me and we all stand there, in silence, gazing in wonder at this masterpiece.

I sniffle, trying to swallow the enormous lump in my throat. One of the men pats my shoulder and murmurs something comforting in Chinese, smiles at me and they go off into the next room, the bond broken, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.



Before we left, we stopped by the Gift Shop. I purchased a post card of that same portrait, not really knowing what I'd do with it when I got home. A few weeks later, The Husband surprised me: he had taken it to have framed. It now hangs in our living room, a constant reminder of a wonderful memory.

Hand to Hand

The muse at Pictures, Poetry & Prose was a beautiful black and white photograph of aged hands.

The suggested prompt: His hands tell a story. Offer your creativity to share it.
You'll note I took literary license and made the poem about a woman.
Or it could have been a drag queen ... you decide.

My submission:

* * *

Hand to Hand

Once lacquered, long and slender
adorned with fine glinting gems,
waved haughtily at adoring faces.

Now creased, twisted and gnarled
weathered with gruesome russet spots,
waiting patiently for attention.

PPP: A Letter

The muse at Pictures, Poetry and Prose was, to say the least, cathartic. There were some pretty powerful pieces.

Our suggested prompt:

Dear ____, I wanted to write you this letter to explain.
(Write this letter to yourself from someone you wish would write to you.)

My submission:

* * *

Dear G,

I am not asking for forgiveness; what was done is unforgiveable. A bond of unconditional trust was broken, never to be mended. I realize that my betrayal rises above all others. I, alone, have shaped your personality. I have destroyed your trust ... your trust in others and, worse, in self.

I cannot change this, for it was ordained that we should meet, you and I, and teach each other this difficult lesson. I know you have learned this moral well, for I have watched you grow in strength of spirit. And I am proud. You have fiercely chosen to deny the destruction of your life. Instead, you have conquered all challengers and are stronger for it. You are a warrior. A survivor.

When we meet again, we will recognize and know each other. You will understand and you will be healed. Until then, know that the Guardians watch over you and protect you always.

P.

The Call

Another win at Pictures, Poetry and Prose.

Not that this is based on a true story, but I was thinking of The Husband when I wrote this. I married a man who is not afraid or embarrassed to tell his children he loves them. All the time. And who, in turn, are not embarrassed to say I Love You back. Listening to him talk to his kids simply makes my heart glow. He's so proud of them.


The suggested prompt:
Write creatively so that we understand what this phone call is about.
(If you click on the link, you'll see the picture is of a blue collar worker, sitting in a dimly lit stairwell, talking on his cell phone.)

My submission:

* * *

Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, Gregg sat down on the steps, away from the rest of the crew. He glanced at his watch. It was just before eight, almost bedtime. He knew she was waiting up for him, waiting for his call before she climbed into bed with her entourage of stuffed bears. He punched the familiar numbers into his phone, pressed it up to his ear and listened to the rings.

She answered the phone breathlessly, excited, as always, to hear from him. He chatted with her about her day in kindergarten and what the new puppy had done.

As usual, before he could say goodnight, she asked him, “Daddy, will you sing with me?”

He grinned into the darkness. “Of course I will, honey.” He glanced around, to be sure no one was nearby, and softly began singing. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star ...” Her tiny voice joined in with his until the end.

Giggling, she whispered, “Goodnight, Daddy. Love you!”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you too,” he replied quietly.

Pocketing his phone, he turned to climb back up the stairs and was met with several senior crew members, all grinning at him. He shook his head, his face reddening. As he walked through the group of men clapping his back and punching him in the arm, they catcalled. “Hey Gregg, will you sing Old McDonald with me?”, “How about Mary had a little lamb? That’s my favourite!”

He grinned back at them, knowing each one of them, at some point in their service, had done the exact same thing. Their teasing was nothing more than an initiation; their way of saying ‘welcome to the club’.