A Portrait of a Father's Soul
Can you bring back the dead with paint?
They say I cannot wake the dead,
but can I give it a try
with my brush and my paints?
Please-
let me try to bring my father back to life.
Let me dip my brush into a black
the color of bitter licorice candy
we'd savor for Christmas at his mother’s.
Let me paint his eyes with it,
let me see the countries he explored,
the sunsets in Madrid his vision would soak in
as he called me to say: "Good morning, Conejita".
I swear I can trace his thick, long eyelashes,
The ones coated in tears that day he said:
"One day you’ll grow and leave me. "
Did he ever fathom he wouldn’t
witness his little girl become a woman?
So let me bring him back to life.
Let me create a curve for his nose,
the nose he gave to me as I formed
in my mother’s belly.
The nose that inhaled the smoke
of the family bonfires, the barbeques;
the smoke of the fire that claimed his life.
I swish my paintbrush in water,
the color of my father’s
eyes and nose forming clouds in the glass.
Did he ever imagine he would go that way?
Another curve for one of his ears,
the ear forced to take in
the wails and screams of his patients,
the unfortunate ones they would wheel in,
scorched and withering, victims of flames,
hoping the white robe he wore
meant he could keep death away.
A second curve for his other ear,
the one that captured the sounds of
everything else his story could’ve been.
The echoes of laughter around the
family shop he wished to have inherited.
The do-re-mi's and intervals of the
songs he wished he could’ve composed.
I swirl the brush in water,
and bring a flesh pink to the canvas.
Two thin lines for his lips.
The ones that shaped letters into
jokes released to the Sunday lunch table
surrounded by his brothers and sisters.
The lips that would touch
the cold flask of whiskey
the moment he left work the Monday after.
The whiskey meant to erase
what he saw, what he heard,
what he imagined his life
could’ve looked like.
The whiskey that would unleash
the goofy, uncoordinated father
chasing me and my laughing brother,
ideating fantasy worlds we’d
adventure into those nights after work,
making us believe everything was okay,
as my mother watched from the corner,
clutching her wedding band he’d break off one day,
trying to smile but knowing the whiskey was just
flimsy cotton meant to fill up a hollowness inside him.
He always hoped to fill it, he thought he would.
He worked hard for the notion of a someday.
I dip my brush in black again
and dot the shadows of a beard
that scratched my lips the last
time I kissed his cheeks
goodbye.
That day, he’d been close to that “someday”.
But his story had a bad sense of humor,
and decided to end itself short.
Before his mother would’ve wanted,
before he would’ve wanted,
before I would’ve wanted.
So I continue with my journey
to bring him back to life.
This time with the brown of
his forehead, cheeks, and chin,
the skin that smelled like
cologne and cinnamon candy.
The skin that coated his
short body, the body that hugged
me so tight that last day,
like he knew he would never feel me again.
The skin the fire melted off
on a Tuesday morning,
too fast and too unexpectedly.
I paint his grey coat,
the one that smelled like the mint
shampoo he’d wash his black curls with.
The same one he maybe would’ve worn
to sleep eternally in his coffin,
if his body would’ve made it out the fire.
The same coat he wears when he
visits me in my dreams.
I step back and admire his soul,
a colorful work in progress
on the canvas in front of me.
And I continue my task,
my attempt to bring back the dead,
with my brush and my paints.
About the Creator
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Expert insights and opinions
Arguments were carefully researched and presented
Eye opening
Niche topic & fresh perspectives
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Masterful proofreading
Zero grammar & spelling mistakes
On-point and relevant
Writing reflected the title & theme
Comments (8)
Absolutely stunning. The act of painting your father back to life is gut wrenching. It's also incredibly effective as an extended metaphor here, each element you bring up giving rise to several lines of poignant relevance. I'm in awe of how cohesive this is, how utterly gorgeous the memories are tied in to your analyses of their meaning. I'm so terribly sorry for your loss; I cannot imagine what it has been like, what it was like, but I wish you all the healing as time continues on. Thank you for sharing this piece of your heart. 💗
Wow this is so raw and captivating. Insanely talented. If this is from personal experience I'm really sorry for your loss.
This is whelming & desperately, heart-achingly powerful. The grief spilling out in words through a paintbrush, trying to hold onto, to regain some measure of what has been lost.
Beautiful and deeply moving.
Love it 🤯❤️
This is a stunning piece of poetry.
Beautiful! I felt as if I met him from reading your poem.
Elizabeth, I really like your style and descriptive language. The way you describe colours in what feels like nonconventional way is what sold me so hard on this piece! I loved the lines “Let me dip my brush into a black, the color of bitter licorice candy” as they invoked other senses rather than just sight. This type of writing is so genius to me, I’m in awe of your imagination and talent! I imaging this poem was probably hard for you to write with grief in your heart but I’m at a loss for words for how beautiful and seamless this piece is! It’s heartbreaking and captivating and relatable! I love all the sense you were able to activate in this poem, it felt enchanting and hypnotic the rhythm of your words and way of describing!