The Painting

#4 The Vision - An Fhis

My bicycle wheels squeaked softly as I walked my retro ride through the crowd of townees and tourists eyeing the nearly picked over fresh produce. The market was my favorite part about the sleepy town of Marbeth. There was something about it that welcomed you, emitting a feeling of comfort - just like the foyer of the B&B -. The market had been held in the middle of downtown for as long as I can remember. Farmers from across the county line the street with their fold out tables full of fresh fruit, vegetables and homemade goods.

As the market began to end, the crowds migrated from the farmer booths to the small shops, galleries, and cafes that stood on the other side of the sidewalk. Tourists and regular residents sat on sidewalk tables and benches, rewarding their feet for carrying them up and down the uneven cobblestone in search of perfect vegetables. Others took to the cafes and open air galleries immediately taking advantage of the beautiful weather. April brought with her warm mild weather, and good rains for the farmers harvests. I enjoyed the tranquil feeling as I walked my bicycle, whose paint job matched the color of the cloudless sky, down the last row of stands in the direction of the B&B.

I steadied the two jars of honey and a paper bag of assorted fruits that sat in the front wicker basket of my bike as I wobbled over a small bump in the road. Grace found and gifted the bike to me on my birthday after our first year at White Pine. She claimed it was tax deductible, but I knew that wasn't the only reason she'd thought of it. Grace loved having me at the B&B and said as much almost everyday, but I could tell she was also worried about me. In the way a mother would worry about a child. She loved having me, but she also didn't want to keep me from exploring the world - or at the very least Maine. As I cleared the last line of almost empty tables I took a moment to gaze back at the center of town.

I was content here.

I was about to mount my bike when out of the corner of my eye a flash of color caught my attention. I turned to fully face the building, it was a Spanish inspired white stucco, an art gallery I had been to once or twice before. The words Bella Arte, the only adornment to the galleries simple facade, was painted in a light coral color above the door on the bumpy exterior.

My eyes traveled below the words, to the door frame was propped open by a painted flower pot in the shape of a pig, but what had caught my eye was past the door.

Inside on the very back wall was a large impressionist inspired landscape.

I blinked. The image of my mother seated in front of an easel, paint brush poised in her hand as she stared at the canvas before her. I blinked again focusing on the painting beginning to subconsciously take a few steps toward it. She had a look of determination while she sat, as if she was facing off against the canvas. Who would conquer who. I leaned my bike against the wall and entered the building giving a dazed nod to the clerk as she welcomed me. My mother's long brown hair was loose as she painted, you could make out flecks of green and blue caught on a few strands.

I neared the painting, coming within a few feet of it. There was never a photo of my mother with her finished product, only ones taken while she way applying the first layers of blue or green to the landscape. My hands lifted from my sides to find the silver locket that hung around my neck.

"Hey." A voice welcomed from my right side. I flinched visibly dropping my hands from my necklace and snapping out of my trance.

This was not my mother's painting.

The images of her I compiled from photos faded, and I was left standing in the gallery. But, not entirely alone.

"Small world huh."