a painting

There is a painting in the house I grew up in, that sends chills down my back. It's square framed, blissfully displaced and pink. Growing old with it's like minded inhabitants. It stands perpetually cocked, and sloped toward the window; like a pot of leafs in the warm light of day. The meaning or purpose escapes me, even still, for like it's color scheme; the painting bleeds sadness.

A newly wedded couple stands just in front of a lot of sad, leafless trees; darkened even still by the pale gray sky above them. In the midst of the, Poe figured trees, stands your typical church building with many windows-dusty and cold. Painted black, the windows are the darkest parts of the piece. Giving any onlookers, with any thoughts beyond the glass that encloses It, the impression that the Church is empty-locked. No way in. No way out.

The newly wedded couple stands underfed and impassive. Holding her breath, the bride seems cold with her arms crossed. Vale falling down her back with a corner tucked between the folds of her narrow, limited arms. The Groom stands behind her aghast, it seems, as if this is the first time they've touched. He, carrying his bible, with both hands most of the time; doesn't know how to hold a woman. The heat from her heart feels queer in his hand. She feels it too, so she holds her breath. Longing strange enough for her books, and the solitude of dreams. And how they made her feel safe.

Planted neatly in the foreground, with hints of spring and lightness, grows pink bushes in action as the cooling wind engages them. The winded pink bushes seem to ignore the sad that is behind them, they laugh and cheer and bread. Painted so, I believe, that they are unable to look back; to see the discomfort, the darkness, the gray. The blessed few, thus being in the appropriate foreground, play out their purpose with ardor. The delighted specks of pink and brown, sing their songs of joy and grace. Sending pleasant tones to the eyes of a passersby.

And, he or she who takes the look is glad they did. Instantly becoming cheerful-their step lighter then before. Conversation bested only by smiles, and warm touches. The night is made with such things. Not remembered, it seems, the plight and shadows, that's drawn neatly in the background.

There is a painting in the house I grew up in; growing old with it's like minded inhabitants.