The Pining

Chapter 1

Her hands are beyond raw. The skin tightens and cracks as the paper white detergent eats at it. She should have gotten that washer and dryer set Genevieve told her about. She never admits when her sister is right but this time she was right as rain. She presses down her pride while rubbing and twisting the cloth together more and more. At least it keeps her mind busy. She really needs to keep her mind busy. A cough coming from the room down the hall disturbs her ears. She flinches at the emotion the cough brings. ''Just keep washing'' , she whispers to herself ,louder than she intended. She stops when her hands start to go numb. She lifts the heavy button up out of the soap infused water and looks at it like it is a work of art. To her it is. The shirt she got her father for his 55th birthday. He wore it almost everyday. These days he wears nothing but hospital looking pajamas , after all he is bed ridden.

''Green, my dear!''.

She quickly lets the shirt fall back in the dirty water and runs up to her father. Her appearance into his room draws a smile onto his face. His youngest . His only peace in this mess of a world he wakes up to.

''Father , you know you are not allowed to get out of bed without me being by your side."

''You worry too much , Green.'' He slowly sits back down on the edge of his bed at the sight of her silent concern.

''I will never be able to worry enough ,father. If I had only worried sooner..." He mentally rolls his eyes with admiration at his daughter's care.

''Lets go sit in the garden , what do you say. It has been far too long since you painted something out there. You can paint while I watch''. She pushes a wheelchair closer to the old man.

''I haven't got the time for such things. I will take you outside while I hang up the washing. After that you will rest inside again. I am not taking any chances. Genevieve won't forgive me.'' She turns her head away from her father as to not see the disappointment in his features. ''Green , my girl, I stare all day and night at this horrific wallpaper and while I am appreciative enough for your mother's picking of it , I cannot face it anymore. Let me go see the sun and feel it. Let me see the world while you paint it." She turns her head towards him this time. His kind smile and persuasive eyes win her.

''Only for an hour. I have too much to do still to spend more time outside''. Her father's spirit lights up the droopy wallpaper.

Early spring has never been more vibrant than it is now. Flowers of all colors perform in the wind like a rainbow ensemble. Green diligently pushes the wheelchair close to a mahogany bench with orange cushions carelessly placed on it. She takes her father's hand and places it between the folds of her elbow. The other hand takes him by the waist and waits for the beloved creature to pull himself up as best he can. When he is comfortably placed on his awaiting seat she goes back inside to retrieve her decade old bucket of oil paints her mother had bought her when she graduated. She wipes some dirt away with her foot and places a neatly kept easel into the ground. She drapes a canvas over the structure and grips a used palette with her thumb over it and her palm under it. She just stares. The blank picture in front encompasses her. She has no inspiration other than her daily drudgery of passing through life pretending that it doesn't bite as hard as it does. If her grinding emotions of utter misery and angst can decorate with paint then she has plenty but other than that she just stares. Her father lets out another cough. He notices her aching loss of creativity.

''Why don't you do my portrait, Greeny?''

"You know I am no good with people", she responds numbly.

It's the truth. She could craft worlds of fascination with her brushes. She could make you ponder the beauty of art within a gripping second of a glance at her work. But her talent stops at human beings. Genevieve always said it is because she tries too hard. Mother said it's because she doesn't try hard enough. Regardless of these mental opinions she cannot and will not succumb to her father's inquiry.

''Maybe another time.'' He knows it's a lie but he takes it gracefully. She thinks of what colors she would have used had she chosen after all to bring her father to life on the still empty canvas. Life. It seems a cruelty to try and bring him to life in the make believe world while he is dying in the real one. She still wonders. An amaranth pink would have been chosen for his smile. His smile. The one she has gotten so fond of growing up. The pressing smile he still wears even now in this sunlit garden. A blizzard blue would describe his eyes. Soft eyes. Not dreary like hers. Not teary like hers. His withered skin would be explained with an almond color she rarely used. He seems more bone than skin nowadays. His hands are not as big as her child self would have described them. She hurts at this thought.