Paint Me A House

I was strolling along Pier 39 in San Francisco when I saw an old artist sitting by a corner. A small crowd gathered around as they watched him perform his artistic ability. I stopped and peered through and saw him painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Beside him was a collection of his artwork, all of the Golden Gate Bridge in different angles and moods. With just a few cans of paint and brushes he can create one of the most beautiful painting of the bridge I have ever seen.

The crowds came and went until I was left standing by myself. I told the artist how much I admire his paintings then I asked, “Do you paint other subjects aside from the famous Golden Gate Bridge?” “For a pretty girl like you, I would paint anything,” he answered. I smiled and asked him a favor, “Could you paint me a house?”

And he did. Whites and greens, reds and blues, he mixed the colors until he created the most beautiful house I have ever seen painted. Then he looked up at me and asked, “Do you want a swing under the big oak tree?” I nodded.

He handed me the beautiful painting as I gave him $30 for a job well done. As I stood on the street corner with the painting in my hand, memories from the past came flooding in. I cannot help a tear drop fall as I reminisced our bittersweet memories.

I remembered the house you painted for me. Didn’t you asked me too, if I wanted a swing under the mango tree? So you painted a swing, a tire swing. It took a while before you finished the painting because you said it was a labor of love. When you gave it to me, you said it came with a promise. A promise that we will spend our future together. That we will build a home and raise a family, put a swing out in the yard and live happily ever after.

But while I was gone I heard that you “painted” another house. And that you also put a swing under a mango tree. So I came back and I saw it. But this time it was not just a painting. It was a beautiful house standing like a solid rock. It also came with a promise. A promise that you and my best friend will raise a family, put a swing out in the yard and live happily ever after.

I did not notice the crowd that started to gather around the old artist again. The artist looked at me with deep pain and sadness and said, “I know. I understand.”

I walked away clasping the painting to my chest as I let tears of melancholy freely fall. No, I will never know the artist’s love story and he will never know mine. But he spoke to me in the universal language of pain and betrayal. I saw it in his eyes and he saw it in mine.