Paint, Paint – Sew, Sew, Sew

One more stitch, one more smear of paint. As an artist he had just finished his art. As a seamstress I’d just finished mine. Together we created the finest but one night, as I put down my stitching, he asked: Who are we making this for, again? My heart sank. I knew the truth. Soon his hands would not paint, while mine still sewed. I could not bear the thought of his art dying with him and so, I picked up a paint brush and began to learn from him. He taught me so many wonderful things and I fell in love with him all over again. Some days he’d offer up a critique of my work while on others he’d ask if it was his own painting for he did not recall.  I’d always say it’s his own and watch as he’d just sit and stare, muttering in amazement to himself at the beauty before him.  It was when he uttered these sweet sentiments that I’d realize how much he loved me.

Last night he died of Alzheimer’s, quietly in his sleep.

It never occurred to me that this secret I’d kept so close to my heart would become more of a burden once he’d passed. But it has burdened me further.

Maybe it was all those years of living in his shadow that prompted me to be selfish in his last days that I’d manipulate the situation just to hear him say: You are brilliant painter. After all, my sweet husband was always the brilliant painter and I am just a seamstress.