The woman lifted her brush from the canvas and her face flushed with joy. On the canvas was a boy painted in vibrant watercolors, swirled and pooled flourishes accenting the boy’s soft face, its drying paint bringing the portrait to life. A month of work and it was done. The woman studied her creation, tracing his locks of hair with her eyes, each ending in wild wisps. She smiled.
“Anita, madam, pardon me,” a man said, “your new student has arrived.”
“Thank you, Jeffrey. I will be down in a moment.”
“Is that Alexander, madam?” Anita turned to face him, her smile grew and her eyebrows raised. “I must say, your skills have grown tremendously over the years. It is as if he himself were standing before us. It’s unfortunate he died so young—such a studious boy.”
Anita nodded at the affirmation and her steward returned to his stately duties. She lifted the canvas. It’s time for you to meet the others, my dear, she thought. Each painting reminded of her purpose. Though how could she forget? Every stroke of her brush immortalized those she painted. No longer would she forget those she cared for, her precious students. Not like she forgot her son.
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She opened a door, beyond it a gallery. She stepped in and the temperature dropped. Her hairs raised, making her skin course with bumps. She walked along corridors, walls lined with watercolor portraits of boys, and stopped at an empty spot on the wall. Anita placed the fresh portrait in its spot and turned to an altar against the far wall of the corridor.
She stared at a painting sitting on a bed of flowers atop the altar, its colors dull. Globs of old paint marked frequent mistakes. Anita reached out and touched the boy’s cheek. It was lifeless. It was a painting which could not immortalize who her son was and could have been. And so she wept.
“I will get better. I will paint you the way you should be, I promise.”
She turned away, tears still dragging mascara down her cheeks. The portraits towered over her, their eyes following as she walked past. Their presence pushed down upon her as chills shot down her back. So full of life, not at all dull like her dear son. Their colors were bright and vibrant. Why was it she could bring all those others back to life but not her own child?