The portrait

Her hands gently caressed the head and arms of the plush toy laid out at the end of the bed. She paused, for a moment, as if to lift the lifeless being placed in her care. Her eyes, glazed over, instead looked up to see that I had entered the room.

"Hello," I muttered. "How are you feeling today?" I questioned. There was no reply. There had not been a reply for years though it did not matter. I felt the body language was enough to communicate some sort of feeling.

I walked past the antique armoir and stopped at the pictures lined up on the top shelf of the in-laid desk. There were so many; remarkably many people who had come and gone in her life. One picture in particular always caught my eye everytime I paid a visit. A young man, dressed in a World War II uniform, with silent eyes and inauspicious smile. I knew this picture had been taken during the war due to the signature and date written across the bottom left hand corner.

Today the picture left a sense of foreboding. She had often talked about the man in a favourable light. The correspondence during these years was always intriguing to me. Even enlightening. Now, the silent eyes looked back at her in the dim light as her hands reached out in what felt to be the barenness of this seclusion.

I decided at that moment to place the portrait at the back of the shelf. I then walked over to the bed and in customary habit, kissed her ashen, delicate cheek.