Poem | |
“Where is it?” I asked the art dealer with no preamble whatsoever. The tears were about to spill down my cheeks, and I found it hard to get the words past the lump in my throat. He sensed it.
He looked down at me from his studio balcony. “I sold it.”
I turned away and ran towards my car, the grief eating away at my soul as the tears now gushed down needing release. Why had I waited? It was too late. Too late.
At home, I flung myself on the living room couch and through sobs, told my husband what had happened. He looked at me dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what that painting meant to me.
He had been away on one of his many trips when I had passed by the art studio and seen the painting. Perhaps anyone else would have found it plain, not outstanding, not heart stopping, but for the first time, a painting actually spoke to my heart. I was enthralled by the image of a wooden door of a typical Cypriot village home- just a door but cascading down around it was a spray of fuchsia bougainvillea, my favorite flower. The contrast of the colors of the door, the wall, and that spray of heavenly flowers was simply overwhelming. I loved everything quaint…the lovely villages of Cyprus, the cobblestone streets, the picturesque homes. My heart mourned. It would not be comforted.
Why hadn't I just written a check? Why had I waited to ask for permission when I knew how badly I wanted that painting to be hung on my wall, feeding my soul every day with beauty? Why had I been naive enough to tell the art dealer that every time I passed by the window, my heart would beat in a frenzy, for after that, he had placed it in the very front of the display window. Now it was gone. FOREVER.
Time passed. Every time I remembered my painting, my heart bled. I moved to Lebanon. You can never know how overwhelmed I was when I first saw the backyard of my new home, for there were TWO fuchsia bougainvillea trees, the branches of one reaching down to almost touch my dining room window.
My heart sings everyday, for these flowers are not captured on canvas, they live. The flowers dance and sway with the breeze, contrasting with the green of the grass, the blue of the sky, and the brown of the pine tree trunks. I look at the spray of glorious flowers, and my soul is fed by my loving God.
Persian Proverb by Saadi:
“If of thy mortal goods, thou art bereft
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left
Sell one and from the dole
Buy Hyacinths to feed the soul”
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