When a writer sees the future in a painting on his wall...the future isn't very pretty.
THE WRITER
An active imagination is a horrible thing to waste. David was always writing short stories. He always added a queer twist in the end. Today’s active imagination had him daydreaming about the portrait at the end of his room. Wouldn’t it be wild if that portrait were a magical painting? Ever changing? Some poor sap keeping an eye on it to see what his future would hold.
He could be seeing his next day before his very eyes. Watching the night before knowing the next day he’d watch television then go to his desk to write and sit there watching the painting portray the next day.
The next day he’d watch television and then go to his desk and sit, watching the painting. This has to change he thought. It can’t be the same thing every day. Then it did change. There was a girl and she was moving something into an apartment. He was watching (watched) her come up the stairs. (and stopped to help her). He was stopping to help her. It seemed like they were having a nice conversation like he was asking her to dinner or something. David wondered who she was. He also wondered where she was moving in to?
At 1:00 a.m. he heard the screams of ambulance sirens. The lights from the ambulance were dancing all over his apartment. He got up and went to the door. He opened it and across the hall he saw the medics bending over Mrs. Tilly. She was lying on a stretcher in the hallway. She was 70 years old and lived alone. They took her out on the stretcher.
“Is she going to be all right?” David asked.
“Yes, she’s had a mild heart attack. We’ll take her in for observation and she’ll be home tomorrow with any luck. Do you know if she has any relatives nearby? To stay with her when she returns home?” the medic asked.
“No, But I’m sure there’s somebody she can call. She gets phone calls all the time.”
“Thank you.” said the medic. If you see anyone tonight, she’ll be at Gracie Hospital.”
“Ok” said David as he quietly closed his door.
It was 3:00 a.m. before he fell asleep again. Thinking, poor Mrs. Tilly, I wonder who’ll stay with her?
The alarm clock rang at 6:30 a.m. It came too soon. He hit the snooze and dozed off. Before the snooze came on again, he heard something on the stairs. Thump. Thump. Thump. He thought, great there goes any chances of sleeping. All that noise. He got up and got dressed.
The noise started again as if someone had stopped and rested before resuming their climb up the stairs. He opened the door. It was the girl in the painting. She had a box and a suitcase. She had stopped half way up the flight of stairs from his floor. “Can I help you?” David asked.
“Sure” she said. “Grandma didn’t tell me there were so many stairs.”
“Grandma?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Tilly is my grandmother. She had a heart attack last night. She called me from the hospital. I’m going to help her for awhile when she comes home.”
“I know,” he stuttered “I mean I know she had a heart attack, I didn’t know about you, I mean…here let me get this suitcase. That box looks heavy too!” said David.
She said “I have to have the box. I have an active imagination so I write stories.”
“Oh ok, is Mrs. Tilly going to be all right?” David asked.
“Oh yeah, she’s tough. By the way I’m Josephine.” She reached out to shake David’s hand.
“I’m David, pleased to meet you” he said as he stretched out his hand to meet hers. He paused then asked, “If I’m not being too forward can I make dinner for you tonight?”
“Yeah, grandma won’t be home until late and I’m too tired to cook. I’d love to. At 6:00? Is that ok?”
“Yup, I mean yes that will be fine” David replied. “I’ll see you then.” David finished dropping the suitcase and box at Mrs. Tilly’s front door.
He went to his apartment and looked at the painting. You did change he thought. That night he sat at his table after Josephine left and stared at the painting. It was showing him and Josephine at the gravesite of Mrs. Tilly. She was holding him and crying. Oh man, he thought what am I going to do? Will she stay after her grandmother’s death? I should tell her what is going to happen. No, she’ll think I am crazy.
A week later Josephine knocked on his door. “David, grandma died last night. She only has a few friends. I know she’d like it if you were at her funeral with me. Will you go? Please? I could use the support.”
“I’m sorry, I mean about your grandmother. Of course I’ll go with you. It’s the least I can do.” David replied.
Josephine told David “the autopsy has been done and they will have the results in a few days. They seem to think the heart attack came on from something out of the ordinary”
The funeral went the way the painting portrayed it. Josephine held him, crying and shaking. He could not believe the painting was showing the future.
This poem reflects imagination and the course that it can take. I encourage you to keep writing, as it is a great vehicle that allows us to heal ourselves and travel to another place and time.
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