Sad Day

I meant to write this yesterday, but trying to finish a novel before today deterred me.  Argh!  Anyway, here goes.

  It’s a sad day today.  It’s a sad day, not only for the nation, but for the world.  Now, more than usual, I wish I could draw.  I wish I could draw the image in my head.  Yet I can’t manage more than a child’s scribble, so I draw my image for you all the only way I can.  With my words…

  There’s a person sitting at an artist’s easel.  They’ve got one of those faces, could be young, could be old.  But the face looks careworn this day.  Maybe there’s a few strands of grey in the vibrant hair, made dull by the light of only a work lamp.  There’s worry in that face, there’s bags enough to pack a trip under those eyes.  Eyes that have seen things in their lifetime, however short or long, that they hoped they’d never see.  There’s only this everyday Joe? Jane? sitting at their workspace, drawing slowly.  The workspace looks like it’s seen better days, worn, scratched, cracked.  Maybe it’s a much loved workspace, maybe it’s the result of hard,but fufilling intense work.  But maybe it’s just what they can afford on contract work, unable to find a secure and stable job in this great nation of ours.  Finally, maybe done, maybe just overcome the artist puts the pencil down and slowly gets off their stool.  Maybe this artist has arthritis, maybe just sore, maybe this artist feels the weight of an uncertain future on their shoulders.  It’s only this single light on the workspace that allows us to see the product of this artist’s labor.

  The paper is slightly dirty, smuged, spotted.  Maybe this artist spilled the drinking water on the page, maybe the artist shed tears of sorrow and grief over it.  And there on the page is an old man sitting in a rickety chair.  This old man looks like he’s seen better days.  His hair looks brittle and his clothing is old and worn.  It looks like it was once vibrant and taken care of.  Now though we see the strips of red are faded like old blood and the strips of blue are like the sky before a storm.  The white, oh so pure and beautiful is now dingy and grey.  A cracked and worn top hat lies on the floor next to him.  We can’t see the old man’s face, it’s hidden in his hands as he sits slumped over the chair.  There some embroidery on his torn jacket.  It might have been beautiful work once, but the thread is loose and thin.  We can barely make out a name that just might have been “Sam” but we don’t know for sure.  And this old man is weeping, a newspaper is lying on the floor below him.  The newspaper is dirty and spotted with the man’s tears.  It’s hard to make out what the headline says.  It might be “Kerry conceeds” or it might be “Bush re-elected” but we don’t know for sure.  All we know is that Old Sam weeps over an newspaper and times now gone by.

-Damien