The Painted Frames of Broken Souls | #SpringIntoLove

The Painted Frames of Broken Souls

They haunted her.

Dark emeralds chipped with shards of blue; sheltered by blond lashes. The prominent nose structured between them bled masculinity. And familiarity. For the past thirty nights, her dreams reminded, and for the past thirty mornings, she failed to recall.

In a café's courtyard, she hovered a table, ruminating over her drawings. She'd shaded, stenciled, painted, sketched... Each dream had a new secret to reveal, yet none were kind to deliver her stranger's face in full.

And today—of all days—she needed rest.

A small white-and-black-headed bird sang in the cherry blossom tree at the café's fence. Spare petals, stolen in the wind, swayed to the artist, kissing her hands and table. Her eyes billowed, the vibrant shades becoming a blur.

She would have loved coming here today to listen to the birds sing. Her pretty hazel eyes would have danced over every gaudy shade of pink!

The bird continued to tweet within the blossoms.

She needed to sketch. Sketching always helped her on days like this. The young woman cleaned her cheeks and crafted, the painful memories beginning to ease.

"Are you alright, miss?" a kind voice inquired.

"Yes. I'm fine." she sniffed.

A blurry hand, rather tanned, offered her a napkin. Hot-pink letters stitched the napkin's corner: Café Flora.

"Thank you." she patted her eyes.

"Do you mind if I join you—while I wait for my tea?"

"Please."

As the woman's vision cleared and settled upon the appearance of her company, her breathing hitched: his hair was gold, as gold as the pencil's tip upon her table; a subtle curve crowned his nose; and as the day's sun peered over the courtyard's cherry blossom trees, a warm streak of yellow noted his emerald eyes.

"You're very talented," he complimented.

The perfect blue chipped his jewel-green frames.

"Thank you," she uttered, clenching tighter to her work.

She couldn't allow him to witness the eye sketches behind her latest design; they mirrored his stare flawlessly.

"Do the birds always sound this beautiful here?" he admired the tiny creature in the blossoms.

"Enviable musicians, aren't they?" her gaze followed the bird's ascent into the clouds.

"I hope it was only the bird's singing that saddened you." wrinkles curved at his brows.

"I appreciate your concern, but my tears aren't your burden to bear."

"Well, no, but I believe the best way to heal a broken soul is to confide in another that's willing to help."

Reluctantly, the artist released her book, setting both palms upon her napkin now. "Today is the anniversary of my sister's death." she bowed her head in a silent war to restrain her tears. "She would be ten in May."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

She forced a smile. "Paige—that was her name—loved this café. I've come here every year since her death to order her favorite tea." the woman tapped her empty pink teacup and studied the courtyard's blossoms. Like big cotton candies, her little sister always said. "It's been three years now, and the pain is still the same."

Her company reached into his pocket and retrieved a small book. "Here. I keep this book with me, and I read it...when I miss someone I love."

She peered upon the page's ink, its words expressed in brilliant cursive:

How my eyes have deceived me yet again—

Tricking me into believing you are gone because they can no longer see you.

The pain;

The pain I feel does not come from no longer being able to hold you

(Because I can, and I do).

The pain I feel is a brief time of mourning for my eyes.

At this moment, they argue with the peace my heart and soul have within me—

Where you are now.

They still feel you and hold you;

Laugh with you and see you;

Seek your counsel and comfort...

But my eyes mourn.

They cry—

Because they can no longer see.

My soul breaks not because I have lost you

(I haven't);

My soul breaks for my eyes:

In a period of mourning what they can no longer see,

And, for now, believe is gone.

But my heart knows,

And my soul knows,

Where you are.

And in time, my eyes will see,

And they will no longer mourn.

Though her eyes remained clouded, her newest tears wouldn't fall. "This is beautiful. Who wrote it?"

"I did."

She stared at him silently, studying the sunlight's beams dancing over his hair and face. "I remember you. You were a nurse...for my sister. Your grandmother would come to the hospital with her dog every week to visit all of the kids. Paige loved it."

"She did." his emeralds beamed then dimmed. "We lost my grandmother a few months ago. I wrote that poem the night she died."

The woman covered her lips. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright. I'd like to think my grandmother and Paige are reunited. I noticed you through the café's window while I ordered my tea, and then," his jeweled frames drifted over the table. "I remembered the blossoms that day...outside Paige's window. She was such a sweet little girl."

"She was," the woman said. "I believe Paige and your grandmother are together again, too. I think the two of us seeing each other today was their idea. I'm certain."

"How do you know?" the young man asked.

With a small breath, the artist reopened her sketchbook, forsaking the small white-and-black-headed bird to reveal the emeralds hidden below. Though her heart fluttered like a flame dwindling upon vanishing wax, she acknowledged her company across the table.

He hummed as emerald viewed emerald. "It seems we have something else in common besides a broken soul." he shifted his pages of poetry, turning back time. The uncovered words displayed poems and titles about a young woman he'd met with beautiful brown eyes and a caring yet broken soul—three years ago.