Yes. He was an old painter. How old? No one knew for sure. They regarded him as an elder in his community. One that was respected and loved. His right eye had gone to sleep years ago, closed shut and unwilling to help the elder with any of his paintings. But that didn't bother him much. He adjusted quickly in making sure he didn't knock into a wall or hit someone with his right shoulder. In his late age, he was hyper paranoid and noticed himself looking more right than left. Looking for what? No one knew for sure. His paintings seemed to have more detail on the left side of the canvass but the right compensated with rich color and large brush strokes.
He was quiet. He didn't talk much, laugh much or love much. "Life's too short for that sort of nonsense", a favorite line of his. However, his paintings told a different story. There was a woman. There always is. She was his muse, and in every one of his paintings. Even ones of nature. You could find her sitting in a green pasture with cows and a barn and a pink sunset. She would be as tiny as an ant in the far upper left corner of the canvass; sitting under a full green tree with her straw hat. She had to be included in every painting, because, well--- he loved her.
His hand would shake. Sporadically. Without warning. It would just shake, as if it was a tremor. It didn't bother him, only a mild annoyance and a reminder that he was indeed old. Unfortunately, on this day, he was just finishing Irene's straw hat. "She has to be perfect or this painting----this painting will be incomplete." He spoke with sheer determination, but the suffering was quite apparent. The shaking continued into the night. Why? No one knew for sure. He was reluctant in going to sleep knowing his painting was absent of her straw hat. But he did.
That night his left eye closed shut and did not wake. I imagine he went to find her sitting in green pasture. With her straw hat.
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