To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Forty: The Beauty I Found

One of the church of Panaya Kanakaria mosaics (mid sixth-century C.E.), looted in late 1970s during Turkish occupation of Cyprus, other pieces were repatriated or still remain missing; mosaic above depicts St. Mark, willingly returned to the church in 2015 by the British owners, who had bought the mosaic in good faith over four decades before - value $5.5-11 million

Chapter Forty

On another night, I was staring at the poppies again. I did that a lot lately, entranced by the work that hung in my living room; the work that connected me to my past, the Whitehills, and everything that'd happened.

It was more than just poppies.

It always was.

Simon noticed my distracted daze. It probably wasn't subtle; I was stuck in a hypnosis fed by the layered reds and playful oranges, trapped by the shy greens and brooding browns. He nudged me, nodding towards the canvas when I looked over. "Favorite painting?"

The question stared at me. I stared back. An old friend, a familiar foe; a double-edged sword I gave name to and sheathed in my skin. A question I should be able to answer with ease.

"I don't know," I said.

That didn't feel like enough of an answer, so I took a deep breath, considering it again. My eyes wandered from top to bottom; I'd looked at it a million times, and I'd look at it a million more. I knew that painting. Like I knew the steps to my parent's front porch, the secret ingredient to Grandpa's croissants, and my little sister's laugh—I knew those poppies.

I looked at the work. I loved it, that wasn't questioned. But, for a moment, I tried to see them in a way I hadn't before. The fading light of late January was casting a gloom over the room; it bore down heavy enough that the lights couldn't fully ward it off. It made the poppies seem wilted, fading, dismal, but... eternal. The canvas was draped with a burnt golden glow, gray around the edges, as the light was either burdened with the knowledge of the day or sentimental in its dimming. There was an eternity in the afternoon hours. A melancholy in the blue-kissed honey; it pervaded the room from the coattails of a dying day.

Favorite is a strong word.

"Favorite is a strong word. I love it, of course. The piece is beautiful," I tried.

The real meaning of the work, and what it meant to me, crouched behind my clenched teeth. It wasn't as beautiful as the flowers, but it was just as layered. As eternal. As impossible to put into words.

"It's lovely," Simon remarked.

He was silent for a moment, looking at the piece. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw his head tilt. He asked, "Do you ever change it to something else? Or is it only ever the poppy field up there?"

I frowned. Did he not like them?

"Why?"

Half-leaned against him, I felt the reverberations in my own chest when he hummed before answering. I glanced at him again. He gave a little smile when our eyes met, soft around the edges, but his mind was elsewhere. His spirit was a million moments away, like mine had been. "Do you remember when I said you find the beauty in everything?"

Of course I do.

I remembered it. I wouldn't forget.

The weekend before, we'd walked through the city park, hand in hand. It was a decently sized park, and we'd strolled the wide path, dodging skateboarders, giggling at shrieking kids, and sympathizing with their scrambling parents. It'd been a lovely day. We'd ventured to the city's large mural walls; a spot where local graffiti artists were welcomed to share their skills on city-sanctioned spaces. It was usually professionals, because anything crude, territorial, or too overtly controversial was removed from the diligently monitored surfaces. It was the city's way of extending an outlet for the medium to be expressed, but on their own terms. They hoped to decrease the unlawful occurrences of it around the city. Not to mention, it'd become a tourist landmark, too.