The Painting Speaks

I was a part of the rockpile, pale compared to where the painter came to paint my image from the home I had occupied; I was accustomed to and felt vibrant and clear with color and contrast against the sky and the rest of my homeland scape. He came some 10 years ago and eased me from the location. In that somber decade, I barely existed on the canvas. I struggled to breathe, squished between others like myself, waiting for the day he, the painter, would pull me out and see me center on the easel, resuscitate me to my true colors again, to see the reflection of myself in the eyes of the onlookers. That day came this last week when I, one rock among the others, felt the open space as the painter hummed and hawed about my poor condition and then came the quick abruptness of being placed in the back of his Subaru to find myself being jostled up highway 74 back to my birth-right space. As the chill of a light wind rustled through Pinion Crest, he took out his brush and began his strokes. In the filtering sun of mid-morning, I became the grey that suited me. For me, the formation adjustments were fitting, and the best part of this trip to where I had originated was the fact that I knew my placement on the gallery wall was going to free me from the confines of the painting stack of canvases where each painting that is not finished to a polish awaits its second chance.