My father paints the sea. That is how I remember him.
He sets up his easel where the tide turns and clips his canvas so it doesn’t move in the breeze. He lays out his oil tubes in a neat line on the sand, then takes the thin brushes from the pocket of his white smock and paints the sea.
While I jump the wild waves or fly my kite, he paints gulls, guillemots, a cliff face, a blue sky, sand dunes, and frothy waves.
Afterward, when I look for myself in those summer holiday beachside landscapes, I never appear there.
And dad doesn’t even realize it.
Bobby Warner says
An insightful comment on perception–or the lack thereof. Good job, Conor.
Dianne Hendricks says
Heartbreaking. And, unfortunately, true to the experience of many. An eloquent little gem, Conor! Thanks.
Reminds me of the fathers who took all the family photos, it was only years later that nobody could remember what they looked like.
Nataliia Totka says
makes me sad…very nicely written though