The Portrait

It was a cold wintry night in a small northern town. Christmas shoppers were busily running here and there, carrying gifts and laughing, happily loading their cars with their purchases. At the edge of town near the industrial area, an empty warehouse loomed in the dark. On the top floor one could see the warm light radiating like a beacon from a large window belonging to an artist’s studio loft. 1

This was his studio and this was where he made his art. This was where he painted the portrait of her. His love for her was all consuming and she occupied his conscious mind all of the time. His sleep was a never-ending dream of her. Her face had permanently taken up residence in a corner of his mind. Painting her portrait from memory was very easy for him even though they had never actually met.2

From a cool gray background on a primed canvas he lovingly coaxed the image of her forward. Using luscious deep crimsons and lavishly warm flesh tones, he slowly developed her pouting lips and beautiful face one well placed brush stroke at a time. . The warm colors on a cool background gave an almost three-dimensional quality to the portrait.3

Concentrating on the painting, his brush strokes quickened until his hands were literally flying over the canvas at a feverish pace. He was in a zone-like trance now and was painting at an amazing speed. The painting was coming to life before his eyes.4

Suddenly he clutched his chest. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor looking up at his unfinished painting of his love. Her image with all the wonderful colors slowly ----faded away ----to --------------black.5

~~~~0~~~~~6

She had made a special place for this painting. After all, a man who had loved her greatly created it. He had died painting this portrait and it was not finished but that didn't matter to her. He had put all his love into it and it showed. She lovingly dusted the frame and canvas daily7

One day she noticed something unusual on the painting. She couldn't’t put her finger on it but something was different. Brushing that notion aside she went about her daily routine.8

She glanced back at the painting. Something was drawing her to the painting. She pulled up a chair and sat in front of the painting staring at it—--trying to see what was different.9

Something moved! She saw movement on the painting. Much bewildered over what was happening she looked closer. There! On the face! She saw fresh paint being applied. A slowly moving brush stroke of warm flesh tone paint seemed to be coming from an invisible brush from beyond. His brush. 10

The painting was being finished now at an incredible speed. Watching in panic she felt dizzy and her knees buckled. She collapsed on the floor looking up at her finished portrait. Her image with all the wonderful colors slowly ----faded away----to ---------------black.11

They are together at last.