Vision is a very fragile thing, I said to myself as I gazed upon the painting I had done. To many it was only another piece of cheap idea on expensive canvas, but to me it was a singular moment that was so important that it had to be expressed.
My wife banged the kitchen door open and began to throw a pot and some other equally noisy utensil into the sink with a loud clatter. She knew that I was inside here, trying to concentrate and this was her way of telling me that she was angry and disappointed with me. When we first met, I was elected as ‘the-most-likely-to-succeed’ by my course mates because of my tenacious character. However, though my passion for painting was all consuming, it was not enough to make me successful. I would have been happy to remain a poor painter, but my wife was not going to tolerate being a poor painter’s wife.
I let out a sigh and put down the brush as I recalled telling her that I work ten hour days so I could fulfill my duty as husband and father, so -I begged- please let me pursue my dream in the evening. Instead of showing compassion she had nagged about how I could have worked overtime or how I could have helped babysit while she plays mahjong with her friends. I couldn’t stand her nagging anymore, so I decided that this one would be my last painting. Nobody cared for my work anyway and each time I showed them, people would tell me it was nice but nobody was interested to purchase one.
The kitchen cabinet door slammed. I covered the canvas with a sheet before going in to help her prepare dinner. Days turned to months, and then to years. Yet the night I made the decision to stop painting felt like only yesterday. Since that night, my wife had been happy, my children got everything they believed they needed and I kept my head bowed.
Apparently, however, all was not well for while I stood next to my wife at the entrance to my son’s wedding reception, my wife turned to me and said, “What is wrong with you? Couldn’t you be bothered to smile at our guests?”
“Is that what you want, dear?”
“You are so ridiculous sometimes. No doubt drawing more rubbish.”
“You know full well that I have not picked up a brush for the past fifteen years.”
“Really?” her voice dripped with sarcasm, “Was that why you wouldn’t paint the house last week?”
“I paid a professional to do it for you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. At the very least, please smile when the next guest comes along.”
As always, I did as she said, for I knew that it was pointless to do otherwise. Even my younger daughter, who went about the reception hall taking pictures of happy people with a digital camera, was forced to take two pictures of me. After dinner, I drifted among the guests feeling lost, ineffective and wrong. I kept my head bowed; not wanting to watch the way young lovers leaned close to each other, or to see older couples danced close to each other on the floor. Children ran in circles and disappeared under tables to reappear again on the opposite side a moment later. I turned my face away from all these because every gesture, giggle and touch made me recall strokes or colors that would bring the scene to life. I must stop looking because the brief sense of joy I felt was only an illusion of what might have been.
When we drove home, I could tell that my wife was furious. After about fifteen minutes of silence she said, “Do you realize how upset Marcus was with you? How could you pull such a long face at his wedding? It is almost as though you were unhappy he married Catherine.”
“That’s not true dear. I am very happy for him.”
“Sometimes I wonder how I could have ended up with someone like you. You are so selfish, so…,” she threw her hands up to the air and let out a hiss.
“You wanted a bigger house and I got you one. You wanted a new car, I got you one. You wanted to send the children overseas and I took a second job. You wanted a large wedding for Marcus and I paid for one. What else must I give you before you stop accusing me of being selfish?”
She screamed, “You are stupid and ridiculous. The day I stop asking for anything from you will be the day when I stop caring about you or when you are dead.”
Thankfully she was silent the rest of the way home. I stopped the car at the front door to let her out and waited for her to let herself into the house before driving on into the garage. The headlights shone deep into a dark corner. I turned off the engine and the lights, sitting in the pitch dark for maybe five or ten minutes. When I stepped out of the car, I did not turn to the house. Instead I shuffled to the corner, feeling my way until my hand fell on a covered canvas.
The connecting door to the house opened and light shafted in. “What is taking you so long?” she said then stomped off. I stepped into the square of light and uncovered the canvas. There I was, much younger though in the throes of death, hanging at the end of a rope slung over the rafters. I had been dying since fifteen years ago. Maybe tonight I should end the suffering. I looked up, and the rope was still where I had hidden it.
“My husband is so selfish,” she sobbed to her friend, “I tried everything to make him happy. I work so hard to keep the home beautiful and the children well educated. All he does is think about himself. He doesn’t care about anybody.” She wailed
Marcus walked into the room, and she looked up. “Did you bring the incense, dear?”
“Are you going to the temple today?”
“No. I have put up an altar for your father. Now that he is in the nether world, I want to ask him to help us,” she wiped a tear, “and to bless our family. Please light three joss sticks for me, dear.”
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