Yesterday .
I stood there watching him painting, (il pennello in mano) brush in hand. Every stroke
meant a new coat of pure perfection. The scent of paint and cigarette mingled with the
summer air outside and as the crisp air bid us good day, I dared to ask, " Dad, can I paint?"
"Go inside and help your mom, girls don't paint." That was his answer on that beautiful
summer today.
Time rolls by far too quickly and as I sip my espresso this morning at five am, I think of
him and all the things he taught me along the way. How to hold a broom just right when
sweeping the kitchen, how to cook smokey potatoes without burning them but mostly
how to live a sober life that contains awe at every given moment, and of course undying
love. The kind that saves.
I was six years old and had my tonsils removed. When he came to pick me up he brought
me the biggest doll I had ever seen. He scooped me off the hospital bed and held me in
his arms. Me and the doll with the icy blue eyes. She blinked every time she closed
her eyes. Being tired from the surgery I fell asleep on the sidewalk with my head propped
against the stairs. Dolly was tucked underneath my arm, safe and sound. When I woke
up dolly was gone. Someone had slipped her off my arms while I slept and stolen her.
Fastforwarding a bit, dad worked at Montreal Children's Hospital. He used to bring home
toys that were broken and discarded. I have a memory of my sister and I digging inside a
big cardboard box searching for missing limbs to match our naked dolls. My favorite
one was the barbie with the bright blue hair. I imagined us as doctors suturing broken arms and
legs. Today I realize it was an innate desire perhaps to heal the world, today I realize that I can't
save everyone but with God's help I have helped heal a few. I take another sip of my coffee and
search my mind for another memory that I can share with you. If you have enjoyed this beginning
let me know, and I'll think up another memory for you.
Love, Your Mystic Rose
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