It is not just a painting

“It is not just a painting,” you say to yourself.

It is history, even if is only yours and your family’s. The farm is dying, there is no denying it. The barn that once was used for grain and wheat was converted into the horse’s living space, now is decaying day by day.

You understand that is time to move on, to let go of the old and head full on to the brand new life awaiting in the city.

“Will they find me?” The murmurs from your lips are very audible. In your mind that is all you’ve thought about. The friendships forged on windy and rainy nights can not be simply forgotten, right?

You refuse to think of it. It will be fine. You take deep breaths before taking the easel and acrylics out of the bag.

The setup is comfortable enough for you to settle and finish today. The strokes caress the canvas, the precision in each color makes your forehead knit. The perspiration under your shirt is not enough for you to stop. The painting is taking life and you can almost see the horses inside the barn, you can see the wind whispering to the wheat stacks and for just a moment you forget what is coming tomorrow, what new life awaits you because this moment is everything.

You drop the brush and admire your work. You are no Monet and you are aware this may never be worth over 5 dollars but to you is priceless.

It represents not only your childhood. It represents the freedom you felt once you let go of your inhibitions; it is a first love’s kiss behind the barn, it’s the cruel twist in your stomach after the breakup, is the countless laughs with your friends when you tried to up each other’s pranks.

You try to capture each memory with every stroke, and as much as you want to perfect it, something is missing. You look at the barn, then you look back at the painting and you notice the edges are not right. The chipped wood is barely noticeable. The faded paint from the barn is a constant reminder of all the natural disasters it has endured. The weeds have taken over the wheat and you feel the guilt creeping in as you remember your grandma and grandpa asking you to take care of the crops.

As much as they wanted you to not feel remorse for losing the farm, you do. Deep down you knew the farm was only a chapter of your life and not your entire future.

You continue to paint, holding back the tears. There is something lost already, perhaps is just innocence, all you know is whatever it is; it deserves your grief.

As the sun sets in the west, your grief is now bittersweet. Your family is already moved into the new house in the city. You swing the brush for the last stroke in the painting; and with it the sigh of relief. This piece is your childhood and your past. Your future is ahead, and it is unknown. The painting is warm and at the same time it chills your soul. You know this is a goodbye. The farewell of your past. You want to hold on to the painting for as long as you can, refusing to move an inch now, but is time. You decide there is no point in taking the painting with you. If you do, all you will do is compare the past with the present and you will never savor the new moments.

You take one look again before leaving the painting behind.

You know is time to walk away and grow.

All you know is: it was never just a painting.