The old gentleman knew that more years were chasing him than remained. His beloved Betty had passed away last December. It was awful.
He awoke that chilly winter morning and found her in his art studio, on the floor. A teacup shattered beside her frail body. And in her left hand, his recent painting of daffodils.
It comforted him immensely. That in her final moments, she had picked up his little flower painting. Betty loved the garden and especially daffodils.
“They don’t ask anything of nobody. You just put them in the ground. In decent soil. Then let them do their thing.” He could still hear her lyrical voice saying that.
“I love their brilliant yellow. They look like a cup and saucer. So up-lifting. So full of promise and renewal, don’t you think?” He smiled at the memory of that. “Yes, Betty, I do think you’re right,” he said to himself. “It’s why I painted the daffodils for you.”
The inevitable transition
Later that spring, he heard the familiar sound of his son’s truck pull into the driveway.
“Hey, Dad, sorry I didn’t call. Thought I’d check in on you.” The old gentleman let his son in the front door.
“Where’s Carol and the kids,” he asked.
“Oh, they’re at the shopping mall. Carol said something about a new Coach purse.” But the old gentleman knew it was a lie. Benevolent, but a lie nonetheless. In reality, his son had come for “the talk.”
“It’s just that with Mom gone now, there’s no-one to look after you, Dad. And besides, you’ve seen those apartments at Oak Street Villa. There’s enough room for you to set up your art studio. It’s a nice retirement community.”
His son meant well. But he wasn’t old enough to understand the long shadow of grief that accompanies the loss of a spouse. Or the pain of facing the inevitable transition. Leaving the home you spent a lifetime in, only to descend into a community of the irrelevant and forgotten.
“Come on, Dad, it’s not like that. You’ll have company. You won’t have to cook. You’ll be closer to me, Carol, and the kids.”
And so, with that, he looked at his son. “Okay, I guess it’s time. Time for Croak Street Villa.”
His son frowned. “No Dad, Oak Street Villa, not Croak Street Villa. That’s not even funny.”
Memories are roses in our winter
The move went as well as expected. Going through Betty’s old clothing and things was hard. But he was settled into the new apartment now, and his son was right. There was sufficient room for his art studio.
Still, he missed Betty terribly. At night, she’d come to him in his dreams. They were young again and laughing. He mused about his artistic ambitions. She’d emerge, smiling, from the daffodils in her garden.
But then he’d awake, to the solitude.
At least he still had his art.
The staff at Oak Street Villa were kind enough and arranged for several of his pieces to be hung around the facility. Maria, one of the nurses, asked him about Betty once, and how he dealt with her loss.
“I don’t think I have dealt with it,” he told her. “I just go to bed at night, hoping. Hoping that she’ll come visit me.”
And then he said this:
Memories are roses in our winter. I read that in a George Will column once. Never forgot it. Because it’s true. In the autumn of our lives, well, we still have our memories.
Maria’s eyes welled with tears when she heard that.
Who will be my Mendelssohn?
The old gentleman often joined the others in the dining hall. He was known around the place, due to his artwork. One old chap, a retired literature professor, had taken to calling him “Monet.”
“Hey, Monet, I saw that new garden painting you did in the front lobby. Beautiful piece,” said the professor.
“Well, my wife kept a beautiful garden. It reminds me of her.” It was all the old gentleman could think to say.
The professor suggested he paint more pieces for the many halls and lobbies at Oak Street Villa.
“What’s the point,” the old man said. “No one is interested in an old man’s flower paintings. People today like that modern stuff.”
With that, the professor became quite serious, and this is what he said:
Johann Sebastian Bach’s music wasn’t broadly appreciated until after his death, 80 years later. When another composer, Mendelssohn, played it all over Germany. Same with Thoreau. His Walden Pond wasn’t embraced by the public until after his death. So, you just keep painting. You never know when or how your art will impact others.
The old gentleman smiled and said, “Well, I don’t know who my Mendelssohn will be.”
The healing power of art
A few years crept by and the old gentleman did his best to paint, but arthritis and cataracts were his enemies now. His son and family would visit, but something inside of himself said it was time.
He dreamed that final night of a daffodil garden, and in the distance, he saw her. Betty was sitting on a bench, smiling and waving. Beckoning.
In the weeks after his death, his son and family cleared out the apartment and said their goodbyes to the staff. It was poignant for everyone.
A month later, another family arrived with their aging mother. She had lost her husband and was terribly afraid of change.
She felt so very alone in this new place. The kind nurse, Maria, told her that a wonderful artist used to live in her apartment. But the old woman was still afraid.
“Tell me your story,” Maria asked. “What did you used to do?” And the old woman said, “I raised my children while Carl, my husband, worked at the bank. Oh, and I gardened. Tulips, roses. And especially daffodils,” said the old woman.
The second night in her new apartment, the old woman sipped some tea and continued unpacking. At one point she sat down and wept.
Change was so hard. But then she clicked the light on in her closet, and noticed an object on the top shelf. Using a stool she reached up and slid out the small painting. She took it down into the light.
Gazing at it, she began to feel a sense of peace wash over her. “It’s so beautiful,” she thought to herself. “This must be a sign. Maybe I’ll be okay, after all.”
The next day she visited the front desk and asked if there was a frame shop in town.
“Why do you ask?” said the girl at the desk.
“Because I have the most lovely daffodil painting, and I want everyone to see how splendid it is.”
Before you go
I’m John P. Weiss, a writer and artist. I focus on life lessons and personal development. Check out my free Saturday Newsletter here.
—
This post was previously published on Medium.
***
You Might Also Like These From The Good Men Project
Compliments Men Want to Hear More Often | Relationships Aren’t Easy, But They’re Worth It | The One Thing Men Want More Than Sex | ..A Man’s Kiss Tells You Everything |
Join The Good Men Project as a Premium Member today.
All Premium Members get to view The Good Men Project with NO ADS.
A $50 annual membership gives you an all access pass. You can be a part of every call, group, class and community.
A $25 annual membership gives you access to one class, one Social Interest group and our online communities.
A $12 annual membership gives you access to our Friday calls with the publisher, our online community.
Register New Account
Need more info? A complete list of benefits is here.
—
Illustration by John P. Weiss