The drawing

Mare got the drawing when she was fourteen. She was on vacation in Quebec City with her mom. One day, as they were walking down a cobblestone street, they saw a row of artists, drawing tourists for a small fee. Her mom looked at the work of several, found the one she considered the best and had him draw Mare.

He was a tall, thin man; a slight curve from constantly bending over his canvas did not diminish his height. He dressed entirely in black, unlike the other artists whose colorful garb brightened the rather chilly, gray day. His hair, dark brown, was longish; springy curls fell over his eyes. When he looked at her, she saw that these were like a cat’s: amber, with a dark ring and a pupil that seemed abnormally large.

He stared at her for so long Mare began to blush and fidget. He reached out a hand to tilt her head just so, then, turned to his canvas. His strokes were quick and sure. The result, done in pastels, was spectacular, better than a photograph. When he finished, the artist prepared the drawing for travel and gave it to Mare. He touched her hand, briefly, and though he didn’t say a word, he spoke to her. She never told anyone. She herself wasn’t certain that she had not just invented the moment.

I’ve given you a gift. The gift of starting over. Once. If at some point in your lifetime you feel so broken that you want to start again, you need only gaze into the eyes of the photo and you will find yourself here, now, this age, this place.

However, be warned: Do not come back because you have lost someone and you want to see them again, because you are unhappy with the results of some choices you have made, or because you are dying of some incurable disease. You will NOT come back with the knowledge of the life you have lived. It will be as if that life never was. The only guarantee is that you will be as and where you are presently. You may make the same decisions, meet the same people, incur the same illnesses. Or, you may not. What has happened until this moment is and cannot be changed. The life you have ahead of you is still merely possibility. My gift is that your life from this day forward will remain in the state of possibility until you take your last breath.

“C’mon, darling. We have dinner reservations. Thank you for the lovely picture,” her mom interrupted the silent connection, paying the agreed upon sum and taking Mare’s hand.

The artist inclined his head and turned toward the next tourist.

Her mother framed the picture when they got home, and it remained on the wall of her living room for 60 years.

As time passed, often bitterness, despair or grief made Mare want to look into the eyes of that young girl and start over. But, she would remember the artist’s words and worry that she’d merely relive the same anguish, and think, yeah, once was enough. Why put myself through a second round of agony? Even if it allowed her to relive the joyous moments as well…if it did….

That if kept the picture in it’s frame. Until today.

She is not sick, indeed, she is rather robust for a woman of a certain age. But, in the last decade, she has lost everyone who ever mattered to her to manmade killers: bombs and viruses. She is alone in a world that is devouring itself. Part of her wants to go back to the innocent she was, if only to be again in a world that still has hope.

To a Mare that was young and more hopeful.

She sat in her favorite chair by the window, the picture in one hand, an oleander plant on the table by her side. She could hear the bombing in the distance. It would reach her little home soon, she thought. The street was nearly dark, the sun hidden by black smoke and the ashes of millions. As she stared out the window, she saw a shadow walking towards her door. Seeing her, the figure came to the window instead.

Mare, mouth agape, stared into the cat-like, amber eyes she’d never forgotten.