A Tale of a Portrait
He sat in his usual old-fashioned armchair. Watching the outside world, from his little window, swaying, he lay there lost in thought, lost in time. The rain lashed across the sills. The woods creaked. The dull room flashed occasionally from a broken bulb that lay wavering somewhere at the top. His eyes though weak looked with a purpose, constantly shifting from the window to a little portrait that lay precariously dangling on a rusted nail on the wall ahead.
The eyes behind the half-moon spectacles and within the canvas told different stories. The face wrinkled a distant cry from the handsome smile of the smart man. He curled out a smile- looking at his gorgeous wife and a little wonder with a little over-sized grey trousers playing right under their feet. The static reminiscence wasn’t inert in his memories. It had been more than 40 years to that day; he still could feel every bit of it.
The memories flooded him of his long gone past. Nothing remained to hold onto now-not his wife, not his little child- but only piece that hung on the wall.
A thud. The bulb shimmered for one last time. He heard it. He heard the little shatter. He for once knew what it was. He shuddered. Mustered all his might, got out of his chair. It shook vigorously. Scampered on the ground, until he felt it. Amidst the broken bits of the glass, he found the photograph. He clutched it hard. A child-like smile took him over. Not a sense of joy but a sense of being complete. Little drops of tears streamed down his creased cheek. He jolted as he tried to get back on the chair.
The rain had started showing mercy on the sills. The wind gradually receded. He was reclining back again. Swaying to and fro. A gentler breeze blew across.
He lay there as his eyes watched the days slip by from his window. The eyes didn’t blink as it stared into the outer world- the world outside his little window. Lost in time within his loosened grips remained the portrait – a window to his past, a window to his memories.