The Portrait

Standing in the garden facing the four o’clock sun, the roses drawn up to their full height, you approach me from behind, press a piece of paper and a pencil in my hand and ask me to draw you a picture. I hold the translucent sheet up to the light and traced the scene which slowly soaks through, the proudest rose bending at its apex due to weight of its oversized pink blossom, petals spread by the onset of autumn and swaying gently in the breeze. Above it, the soft glow of the sun seemingly just inches away. Between them, the silhouettes of distant evergreens cut across at a slight angle. Satisfied that there’s nothing left to capture, I scrawl “The Confession” across the top of it and hand it back to you. With a grateful smile, you fold it in three And slide it into your back pocket before anointing the rose with your green watering can.