Cerulean Blue (A Story)

8/7/2019 Cerulean Blue (A Story)

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Cerulean Blue - Richard Szponder 1

©2011 Richard Ryan Szponder

Cerulean Blue

By Richard Szponder

I have been 19 years old for 63 years. I am not a supernatural creature. At first, it

seemed simple. One morning, a few weeks after my 19th birthday, I decided that I would stop

growing older. And from that moment forward, I did.

My parents died about twenty years ago, and I inherited my childhood home. They both

lived into their nineties, long and healthful lives. Yet eventually, they died. So that ruled out

genetics as an explanation for my condition.

We never talked about it. My parents must have known something. By the time they

passed, I should have been into my early sixties. How could they not notice? Or do all parents

forever see their offspring as children?

Literature and film describe immortals as geniuses with vast knowledge and experience

trapped in young bodies. Yes, I acknowledge that having had decades to read the greatest

literature has enhanced my vocabulary. I present my thoughts logically and explain myself with

incredible detail. But as for holding down a job, deciding what I want to be when I grow up, or

craving the company of mature and established companions? Those desires evaded me. My

maturity had never advanced beyond my first 19 years.

As children, our imaginations run wild, uncontrollable. Can we not accomplish anything

as youngsters whose minds are fresh and not yet enshrouded in maturity? Is creativity not

inherent? Of our writing, drawing, painting, or singing, we’re told it’s great to have a hobby.

But then we’re forced down a path of logic, safety, and stability. Don’t take risks, don’t expect

too much of life, and don’t be greedy. Wealth and recognition are for other people, lucky people

who mystically happen to be in the right place at the right time. Settle for contentment. The





expectation of happiness is too lofty an expedition and runs the risk of failure. Follow the well-

traveled, trustworthy highway, not the mysterious but enticing dirt road.

So with each passing year, we suppress our imaginations as we refuse to nurture them,

surrounding ourselves with other people’s art. We’re jealous of that tiny population that has

remained directly tapped into the creative energy of the universe.

The Art Institute of Chicago is my favorite place to find solitude, wandering through the

Modern Wing, admiring the works of Picasso and Dali, enthralled with the imaginative drama of

the surrealists. What secrets had they stumbled upon that kept them painting into their advanced

years?

Late morning on a Thursday, the museum was practically empty. Rain gushed from the

sky, smashing into the glass tiled ceiling, creating a calming and hypnotic abstract rhythm. Why

must the benches be so uncomfortable? I thought as I sat and admired a sloppy and vibrant

Jackson Pollock.

The man sat next to me, uncomfortably close, just as the only other patron in an empty

movie theater always sits directly in front of the first. With a deep sigh, I let my irritation be

known. Using only body language, I said, “Go away. This is my painting right now.” He

ignored my obvious cues. Staring straight forward, he seemed captivated by the mess of

splattered colors and irrational lines.

In his late twenties or early thirties, he appeared timeless, with flawless alabaster skin and

dark blonde short choppy hair. His chiseled nose and cheek bones had me questioning whether

he was real or if someone from the museum had posed a sculpture next to me. He dressed in a

simple black suit, and his shoes shined as if they had been recently polished. His shirt caught my

admiration. It must be silk, I thought. I struggled to find the perfect descriptor for the rich, deep





color blue of the material. Cobalt? Royal? Ultramarine? I had seen this blue before, and my

frustration mounted as I failed to identify it.

“Elijah,” the man spoke.

I wasn’t surprised that he knew my name.

“What have you done with yourself?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Let me rephrase. What have you made of yourself?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know what you are,” he said.

“And what would that be?” I asked, unsure of why I felt defensive.

“An immortal.” His expression conveyed sadness and loss. “You haven’t kept your

promise. Imagine all you could have accomplished.”

My eyes narrowed as I leaned away from him. “Who are you?”

“We made an important agreement many years ago.”

He reached toward me. I would have backed away had I not been captivated by the hint

of blue cuff that peeked through the sleeve of his jacket. His fingers brushed across my

forehead. My vision clouded. As bright white light filled the room, I felt a jolt through my spine

as if the lightning above had pierced the roof of the museum and struck me down in front of the

Pollock.

Instantly, I was seated at an easel that displayed a tightly stretched canvas. In my right

hand, I held a short-handled, three-quarter inch white sable brush. In my left, a tiny white plastic

cup filled with cerulean blue oil paint. Cerulean blue! That’s it! That’s what? Mozart’s

Symphony #40 in G Minor, the minuet and trio, resonated throughout the room, echoing off the





white walls and wooden floors. The record scratched along, but the music inspired me no less

than if I had been hearing it performed live at Symphony Center.

An abstraction of blue, white, and light gray adorned the canvas. Nearly finished with

the background, I dipped the brush into the paint. With a few flicks of my wrist timed perfectly

to the music, dabs of blue further enhanced the image. I admired my work.

A bold red line had dominated my thoughts for weeks, and I knew the only way to release

it was to get it out of my head and onto the canvas. Placing red atop this angry sky was an

unconventional decision. It would take days or even a week for the thickly-caked oil paint to

dry. If I painted the line now, it would mix with the blue, creating a wretched purple, destroying

my vision. Yet the red line demanded to be painted. And so, I would be patient.

The record skipped, jolting me from my meditation, preparing me for the moment my

bedroom door flew open in a rage. My father, returning home from work, had heard the music

and burst in. His rumpled suit hung loosely from his bony shoulders and hips, his five o’clock

shadow hinting at insanity. How disheveled he appeared was always an indicator as to how

much stress he had endured that day.

In his rage, he shouted, “When are you going to do something with your life, Elijah?”

Our eyes met, only for a moment, and I decided a stare-down was out of order. I chose

submission and looked away.

“I’ve had it,” he said. “You keep yourself holed up in this room half the time, listening to

these records, painting yourself into a stupor. Look at this place!” He flung his arms around.

“There must be 20 paintings in here! Enough!”

I looked at him in horror. Twenty? Enough? Impossible, I thought. Images and shapes

and colors ravaged my mind and demanded escape! Hundreds of paintings would emerge!





“Get yourself into school or get a job. You’re 19 years old, for Christ’s sake!”

My mother would be listening nearby, probably disdaining my father’s words, but I knew

she would never defend me.

I had heard this speech before, only this time he recited it with more conviction. “Figure

it out,” he said. “Get an apartment or get yourself into school. You’ve got six months to get out

of this house.”

“Peter.” My mother’s voice whispered in protest from somewhere in the hallway. He

raised his hand in a stop motion, silencing her, and looked back toward me.

“Six months.”

Grabbing my messenger bag from the bed and throwing it over my shoulder, I charged

toward the door, shoving my father out of the way. “Excuse me!” he shouted. I ignored him.

Down the stairs I pounded. I slammed the screen door shut behind me.

Rounding the corner from our house, I slowed down. Panic ensued. How could he be so

cruel? How could he suffocate me like this? Responsibility and stability are the mercenaries

that hunt and feed on artistry. My father had made it perfectly clear. Art is a hobby, not a

career. “Why not?” I had been bold enough to ask once. The odds of success in the arts were

against me, he said. The risk of failure just isn’t worth it.

I entered the park a few blocks from my house and sat on an uncomfortable wooden

bench. Tears collected in my eyes as I contemplated my future. My life is meaningless without

my art, I thought. Time is my enemy. From this point forward, I will grow no older.

I lowered my head, touching my chin to my chest, and closed my eyes. I could feel my

blood pulsing through my veins, and I commanded it, “You will not carry any more age through

this body.”





When I opened my eyes, a man stood in front of me. I saw only his black suit and shoes

at first, and I thought my father had followed me. As I looked upward, I decided the suit was too

finely pressed to have been my father’s. The man’s shirt was blue, nearly the exact blue I had

been so inspired by just an hour ago. His eyes matched his shirt. He wore a black felt fedora

that shaded his forehead.

“Stand up,” he said.

When I did, he put his arms around me and hugged me tightly with a constricting

strength. It should have been terrifying, but I felt overwhelmingly comforted. He kept his hands

on my shoulders as he looked into my eyes and spoke. “Imagination fuels the soul, and the soul

is immortal. The deterioration of the physical body is a fundamental flaw in the design of

humanity.”

I was confused.

“Do you want immortality?” he asked.

Without thinking, I responded, “Yes.”

“With my embrace, it was already yours.” He backed away, and his stern expression

warned me. “To be worthy, you must create and use your talents to inspire others. Do you

understand?”

“Yes.”

“You must do this of your own volition, Elijah. Create out of love for the process, not

out of desire to remain young. Otherwise, your paintings will not be spectacular. For this to

happen, you must forget this conversation. Believe in your immortality. Prove yourself worthy

of my gift.” His hand brushed against my forehead, forcing my eyes closed. When I opened

them, I was alone on the park bench. I remembered nothing except that I was immortal.





My anger had simmered, and I walked home. I passed my mother sitting in the living

room. We exchanged glances, and in hers, I could see an apology. I went straight to my

bedroom to find it cleared of any indication that I was or might have been an artist. My

canvases, easels, paints, and brushes had all been removed. My record player was gone, but my

crate of records was left as a cruel reminder of the expectations my father laid out.

A familiar light filled my bedroom, and I shielded my eyes with my arm. After another

jolt, the light dissipated, and I found myself back in the Art Institute looking into the blue eyes of

the man to whom I had broken a promise.

“We had an agreement,” he said. “You had a talent I would not allow to be blocked.

You were to create, inspiring works that would hang in museums just like this one. And once

you had conceived of your legacy, you would help others realize their own potential. My heart

breaks as I watch you squander your time. You move from one odd job to another, making only

enough money to survive, denying your passion. Imagine all you could have accomplished.”

My own heart ached as I considered his accusations. At one time, I had raged against

societal expectations, determined not to lose myself.

“You’re no longer worthy, but I’m giving you one opportunity to redeem yourself,” he

said. “Do you see that woman over there?” With a nod of his head, he gestured across the

gallery to one of the few other patrons at the institute on that rainy weekday morning, a young

woman dressed in a long tan trench coat.

“Yes.”

“She could be one of the greatest concert violinists of all time. Like you, she has denied

her talent.”

“Why?”





“That man.” He turned his head toward a man, sitting on another bench against the wall.

“I noticed him earlier,” I said. “He keeps checking his watch and doing something on his

cell phone. He looks bored.”

“He is. He finds no significance, no meaning in anything here. He won’t take the time to

consider any of this. Art should not have to be explained. It isn’t about what the artist intended

when he created it, but rather what it inspires in his audience. One piece of art, music, or

literature can create an infinite number of interpretations, all of which are spectacularly accurate.

That man is uninspired.”

“Then why is he here?”

“He’s with her. She will marry him next weekend,” he said. “He isn’t a horrible person.

For the last two years, she battled cancer. He remained by her side until she entered remission.

His own insecurities shadow his love for her. He will censor her, control her.”

“How cruel,” I said.

“Not really. It isn’t intentional. Neither of them realizes how imperfectly matched they

are.”

“Does she love him?”

“She thinks she does,” he said. “But she misinterprets her gratitude for love. Look at her

eyes. Those aren’t the eyes of a woman about to be married. She feels guilt when she thinks

about leaving him, so she sacrifices herself instead.”

“I can understand that,” I said.

His expression brandished contempt. “Do you think that’s what life should be? A series

of sacrifices? Compromises? It’s one thing to give of yourself to help others. It’s another

altogether to deny your own happiness! Get as much out of life as you possibly can!”





“What does any of this have to do with me?”

“You have three days to convince that woman not to marry that man,” he said.

“What?”

“Humanity is evolving toward something one-dimensional. The world cannot afford to

lose any more great artists,” he said. “You must convince her that her love for herself and her

music is far greater than her love for him. Help her accept what she already knows in her heart.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“You have three days, Elijah. From this point forward, the last 63 years will begin to

catch up with you. The aging process has already begun. If, by the end of the third day, you

have not convinced her, you will be an 82 year old man.”

He terrified me. “I’ll do it. Just show me how.”

“I can’t. But I would not have come to you if I had any doubt about your ability.”

He stood up and looked at me with a gentle and encouraging smile. I had so many

questions. He walked toward the gallery door. I tried to follow, but I was unable to move,

frozen to the bench. Once the door had closed behind him, feeling returned to my legs, and I ran

after him. In the main building, I looked left and right, scanning the vast space. An associate of

the museum asked, “Can I help you?”

“Did a man in a black suit go past here? Which way did he go?”

“No, sir. I didn’t see anyone.”

“He just left this gallery.”

“No. Nobody’s been by here.”

The gallery door opened, and the woman and her fiancé came through in a hurry. “We

haven’t even been here an hour,” she said.





He walked quickly ahead of her. “I’m already late for my meeting.”

She walked faster but failed to catch up. “Roger, you promised.”

“Yeah, well...”

I realized the danger I was in as they hurried away. The almost impossible numbers

flashed through my mind. I would age 63 years over the next three days. 21 years per day, or

more than three-quarters of a year per hour.

I chased after them as they rushed toward the exit doors. The Chicago skyline burst into

view as I flew through the revolving door. The rain pummeled me, and I had no umbrella to

provide shelter.

Scanning both directions of Monroe Street, I spotted them hurrying toward Michigan

Avenue. I dashed after them without a plan of what I would do once I caught up.

They reached the corner and waited for the signal to cross, huddled together under his

umbrella. The signal changed, and a traffic controller blew her whistle and waved the

pedestrians forward. “Excuse me! Excuse me!” The rain muffled my shouts, but Roger heard

me.

Running toward them, waving my free Art Institute guidebook and map wildly in the air,

I said, “I think you dropped this back there!”

“That’s alright,” said Roger. “Thanks anyway.”

“Wait!” I said.

“What is it?” he asked, glancing down at his watch again.

I looked at the woman. “Aren’t you...,” I stumbled. “Forgive me, but your name escapes

me. Aren’t you the violin player?”





She cocked her head to the side and gave an awkward smile that told me she was

surprised to have been recognized. “Yes, I play the violin.”

Roger corrected her. “You used to play.”

“I’m sorry to keep you. It’s great to meet you. I’m Elijah.” She took my extended hand

and shook it. Roger’s excessive arrogance was evident in his huge sigh.

“Estelle Milton,” she said.

“I saw you perform a few years ago. Your concert was stunning,” I tried my best to be

convincing. The confused smile on her face widened.

“Were you at the Northwestern concert?” she asked.

“Yes, Northwestern,” I said.

Grabbing Estelle by the arm, Roger said, “That’s great. Nice to have met you.” The

signal indicated twenty seconds of crossing time remaining, and the traffic controller blew her

whistle furiously, louder than was necessary. He dragged her across the street.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Why did you stop playing? That’s a tragedy!”

I wasn’t sure if she heard me, as they had already reached the other side of the busy

intersection. The signal changed, indicating it was no longer safe to cross. I didn’t care. The

traffic controller sensed my intention and shot me a dirty glare that said don’t you dare jaywalk

through my intersection. Despite her warning, I bolted across the street. The light had just

turned green, and cars started accelerating. More than one set of breaks screeched, and honks of

impatience blended with the angry squeals of the traffic controller’s whistle. As I blew past her,

I caught her evil eyes for just a second.

Having narrowly escaped injury, I sprinted to catch up with Roger and Estelle. “Please,

wait!” I shouted. They stopped and faced me.





Out of breath and panting, I smiled. As I approached, Roger grabbed me by the front of

my soaked shirt and yanked me close to him. He towered over me but hunched down so that our

faces were just inches apart. His breath was hot, and it reeked as if he had just awakened from a

night of open-mouthed sleep. “What’s your problem, kid?” he asked, shoving me backward. I

fell onto the sidewalk, landing in a puddle and scraping my elbow on the pavement.

“Roger!” said Estelle.

I said, “I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if you had any recordings and where I could buy

them.” The same warm, appreciate smile appeared on her face.

“She doesn’t have any recordings!” shouted Roger, wide-eyed. “Get lost!”

Her face apologized, but she didn’t speak. The couple turned and walked away. I picked

myself up and followed, keeping enough distance so as not to be detected.

As I walked, I caught my reflection in one of the glass storefront windows. I stopped

briefly to take a closer look. Something about my face was different. My cheekbones seemed

more prominent, my chin more defined. Had I lost weight? It took only a moment to recognize

the change. I looked older.

A flood of guilt distracted me as I realized how I had wasted the time I had been granted.

Ancient anger toward my father resurfaced, the source of my blocked creativity. I could have

been something, I thought. So could she, my mind answered. For her, it’s not too late.

They walked several blocks before pausing outside of a tall office building. Roger took

Estelle in his arms and kissed her. I recalled his disgusting breath. He disappeared into the

lobby, leaving her under the umbrella, and she continued further down the street.

Once she was alone, she awakened to the world around her. She stopped to stare into

store windows, looked up at the sprawling buildings around her, and watched people passing by.





After several more blocks, she disappeared into an apartment building. I needed time to

strategize, to figure out how I, a stranger, could convince Estelle of her brilliance and show her

that her marriage would be toxic. It occurred to me that I had never heard her play. I trusted the

word of a stranger when I needed to determine for myself that she was truly endowed with such

talent.

An hour later, I sat in front of my computer and Googled “Estelle Milton violin.” Within

seconds, I found an article that gave me the information I sought. Estelle Milton had played

Bach’s Sonata for Violin Solo No. 1 in G Minor at a concert three years ago. The article

characterized the performance as skillful and enchanting and told of her promise as one of the

finest young musicians in the nation. A link took me to a segment of video from the concert.

Switching to full screen mode, I watched as Estelle appeared, dressed in a flowing red gown.

The camera zoomed in as she furiously played the Presto. So brilliant was this performance that

I wondered how it was that Estelle herself had not invented the violin. The captivating clip

lasted less than three minutes. I hit the play button, watched a second time, and grieved over her

lost years.

Another smaller article, written just months later in “The Daily Northwestern,” reported

that Estelle had been diagnosed with leukemia and would be undergoing treatment. The article

ended with a comment that the future of her musical career was unknown, but the violinist hoped

to be playing again very soon. I could find no further mention of Estelle Milton.

Throughout the restless night, I contemplated her situation. I thought about Roger and

my own father. I wondered how many great painters, musicians, and writers would never

emerge because of a single, unsupportive, insecure person in their own lives.





In the morning, I showered and dressed quickly. I had a difficult time buttoning my

pants. Overnight, I had gained weight. As I styled my hair, it clumped in a greasy tangle. I had

used the same amount of styling product I always used, but my hair had thinned dramatically.

Wiping away the mist of steam that covered the bathroom mirror, I looked at myself. I made a

quick calculation and determined that I was 32 years old. Eight hours spent sleeping! How

could I have been so stupid?

Throughout the torturous 45-minute train ride into the city, I imagined myself pounding

on the control room door, demanding of the conductor that he increase the speed. The morning

rush hour of people on the street was a wind tunnel whose force opposed me. Finally reaching

Estelle’s building, I entered the foyer and used the intercom system to search for her name. I

entered the code into the keypad and heard the ringing of a call being placed. “Yes?” I

disconnected. I had not missed her. Hovering outside the building, I waited almost two hours

before she emerged.

She walked two blocks and entered a coffee shop. She ordered her drink, took a small

table near the window, removed a book from her bag, and read leisurely as she sipped her

beverage. I ordered a caramel macchiato to go and approached.

“May I join you?” I asked, gesturing to the empty seat across from her. She looked

around the cafe at all the empty tables. Without giving her the opportunity to respond, I sat

down.

She returned the book to her bag. “I was just leaving.”

“Please, wait.”

She recognized my face, but I could tell she struggled to place me. “Do I know you?”

“No,” I said. “Just hear me out.”





She stopped fidgeting, and her eyes narrowed.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re a musical virtuoso. You have a gift, an incredible talent,

and the world needs you. You’re meant to leave a legacy that will long outlive you, and you’ll

inspire so many others to get in touch with their own creativity.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“When you stopped playing the violin, you altered your blueprint. I know you feel empty

since you stopped playing.”

“Who are you?” Her tone told me that I had touched a nerve. “Why are you telling me

this?”

I spoke quickly. “I know that Roger has been there for you. He was inspirational in your

healing, never leaving your side. That’s an amazing sacrifice, and he deserves credit for that.

But it’s not fair that you should give up your dreams in return.”

Estelle stood up. The wooden chair scraped loudly against the polished concrete floor.

“Who do you think you are?”

“Please, don’t go. At least consider what I’m saying. Deep down you know I’m right.

It’s not selfish to think about leaving him. This is your life.”

“I’m not listening to any more of this.”

As she headed toward the door, I shouted, “Just think about it. I’ll be here tomorrow at

the same time.” Had I already done too much damage? I knew if I followed her, tried to talk

with her further, I would frighten her even more. I had lost a third of my time and had no idea

what to do next.

I spent the remainder of the day wandering the streets, pitying myself and all of the other

creative prodigies who had denied themselves the opportunity to be divine. Everywhere I





looked, I saw them. A hurried businessman slammed into my shoulder, denying me an apology.

I bet he’s a brilliant humorist underneath that façade, I thought. A woman walked toward me,

briefcase in hand. Our eyes met briefly as she approached. I smiled and said, “Hello.” She

looked down and away, deliberately refusing my salutation. She is a visionary dressmaker.

Another businesswoman in a rush tripped and fell when the heel of her shoe got stuck in a

sidewalk crack. I ran over to her. “Here, let me help you,” I said. “I’m fine!” she shrilled. This

woman wants to write a romance novel.

I saw past each of their exteriors, beyond their rationality, and through to their souls, to

the suppressed talent at their core. They were so out of touch they could hardly remember a time

when they dreamed of something more.

Tired from the day, my body ached. I had never experienced this before.

When I returned home, I checked myself in the hallway mirror, and I saw a man with

gray, thin hair and wrinkles forming around the eyes and across the forehead. My muscles were

weakening, and I had developed a gut. My bones cracked with every move I made.

I could hardly afford the luxury of sleep. But the comfort of the bed summoned me. If I

was to save Estelle, and myself for that matter, I would need rest.

Overnight, the man in the mirror again changed significantly. After a quick breakfast of

which I could only manage a few bites, I headed into the city and waited in the cafe.

I didn’t know what to expect as I thought about how angry she had been with me the day

before.

To my surprise, she arrived at the cafe at nearly the same time. She looked nervous and

edgy. Just inside the front door, she scanned the room, looking for me. I raised my hand and

waved her over.





“Please, sit down,” I said.

“No, thank you. Who are you?” She looked at me, confused, as if something was wrong.

I guessed she had noticed how much older I appeared.

“My name is Elijah. Would you like a coffee?”

“No. Look, I don’t know who you are or how you know me, but my life is none of your

business. So please, leave me alone.”

“But you came back today.”

“I came back to tell you to leave me alone.”

“Why not simply ignore me?”

Silence.

“Admit that what I said yesterday struck a chord with you. That’s why you came back.”

Estelle considered it for a moment. “I owe Roger a lot. I wouldn’t be here today if he

hadn’t stuck with me through everything.”

“The only person you owe anything to is yourself. Why can’t Roger handle that? You

survived something horrendous. You can’t possibly believe you are expected to sacrifice

everything in return!”

“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice shaking. “I can’t escape now.”

“Escape? Listen to yourself. Do you hear what you’re saying?” I sounded angry. She

looked sad, confused. I continued, “Logic serves its purpose, but it will always lead you down

the safe path.” My voice, quivering, sounded more like pleading than reasoning, and I realized

how desperately I wanted to hear Estelle play her violin.

“What’s wrong with safe?” she asked.

“You know you’ll never be happy with Roger.”





“He’s a good man.”

“I never said he wasn’t. But he was so angry when I asked you about your music, so

upset when I recognized you and complimented you. He’ll make sure you never play again!”

As I said the words, I realized my mistake. A look of terror washed across Estelle’s face.

I saw the exact moment when she realized she was looking into the same eyes of the young man

from two days ago, the one Roger had pushed to the ground. It must have seemed impossible to

her.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Let me explain.”

“No.” She threw her bag over her shoulder and hurried out of the cafe. My final

opportunity had ended in failure. Chasing after her would be out of the question.

By this time tomorrow, I thought, I’ll be 82 years old. I had no idea whether my heart

could withstand such a rapid transformation. What other ailments would I be expected to

endure? I may have only 24 hours, I thought. I have to live.

The moving train raced through time. Along the journey, I considered how I would

spend my last hours.

Driving through my small downtown, it occurred to me that I had never taken the time to

stop and explore the locally owned shops and restaurants. These entrepreneurs had taken their

fantasies and turned them into reality. An art supply store caught my attention, and I knew

exactly how I wanted to spend my time.

Entering the shop, I was greeted by a young woman with short black hair, cropped

unevenly, with streaks of deep blue. A competition for my attention raged between her tattooed

arms, her nose ring, and her t-shirt that read, “Life’s a bitch. And so am I.” Her huge smile

contradicted the message. “What’s up?” she asked, bobbing her head up and down.





“Where are the oil paints?”

“Aisle six, man,” she said, pointing, head bobbing. My first reaction to her appearance

was critical. And then I thought, why? Here’s someone who refuses to let society dictate how

she should express herself.

“Thank you,” I said, returning the smile. The tubes of paint were organized by color,

from light to dark. Overwhelmed by the selection, I almost turned around and left.

“You need some help, man?” The young woman approached.

“I don’t know where to begin with all these colors.”

Her head started bobbing again, and she smiled. “That’s the easy part. You don’t have to

decide what colors you want.”

“Hmmm?”

“The colors decide for you!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Which colors speak to you?”

I started scanning the rows more carefully, and my eyes lingered upon certain colors. I

grabbed cerulean blue, natural gray, and cadmium red, along with bone black and titanium white.

“See?” she said. “That was easy, man!”

Riddled with anticipation, I could not remember the last time I had been so excited about

something.

Once home, I went straight to the attic. I struggled to find the light, eventually grabbing

the chain and illuminating the bare bulb.

Past the boxes of old clothes, mismatched sets of dishes, and Christmas decorations, I

saw my unfinished canvas calling out to me. Now over sixty years old, the painting stood





proudly on its easel. It commanded me to finish it. I remembered how desperately and

unequivocally I loved painting.

I could still see the patterns, colors, and shapes past the thick layer of dust. And, more

importantly, I could still imagine the finished canvas I had envisioned so many decades ago. It

took a while to gather my supplies and bring them down. The entire experience was painful. My

old joints ached. The bones in my knees and elbows cracked as I struggled with the heavy

wooden easel. None of that mattered. I ignored the pain.

Using a dry cloth, I removed the decades of neglect from my canvas. I positioned the

easel in the corner of the bedroom that had once been mine. I prayed the old record player would

still work as I set it on a sturdy dresser and plugged the cord into the socket. Resting the needle

on the spinning vinyl, I rejoiced as the glorious Mozart commenced in its scratchy grandeur.

The scent of the oil paints hit me like dose of intense painkillers. Brush in my right hand,

pallet in my left, music blaring, unfinished canvas ready and waiting, I hesitated. You can’t do

this, said a tiny voice in my head. You aren’t good enough. You were never good enough. You

should have listened to your father.

I focused on the music, dipped the tip of my brush into the blue paint, and swiped it

against the canvas. With my emotional censor silenced, the arthritic pain in my wrists and

elbows tried to block my concentration.

I fought the pain and worked tirelessly through the night to finish the painting I titled,

“The Journey’s End.” I sat back and admired my work, appreciating the lustrous gray

background, the intense blend of deep blue highlighted in black and white, and the bold red

streak that had finally escaped captivity.





I thought of the man with the blue eyes, remembered the gift of immortality he had given

me, looked back at the painting I had created, and wished for more time.

With a final swipe of my thinnest brush, I signed my last name in the lower left corner of

the canvas as the artistic conduit, the channel through which this painting had chosen to enter the

world.

Setting the brush on the wooden tray attached to the easel, I sighed and knew that I

needed to face reality. As I stood, I had to brace myself against the arms of the chair to gain my

balance. The old wooden floors creaked beneath my weight as I hobbled across the room toward

the dresser and mirror. I closed my eyes, afraid to look at myself. Don’t be ashamed, I thought.

I opened my eyes. My face was wrinkled, my hair and eyebrows thin and gray. My nose and

ears had grown. Brown spots covered my hands and forearms. My eyes, once a deep and

mysterious brown, had turned a smoky gray. I should have shuddered in horror. But instead I

accepted the experienced man who looked back. In the end, I had denied myself neither my

imagination nor my creativity. Should I die tonight, I thought, my life will have meant

something.

At that moment, I realized what I was meant to do with my painting. Morning crept in

through the windows. I grabbed my phone book and searched for 24-hour courier services. I

chose one whose advertisement mentioned their reliability and attentiveness. Within 45 minutes,

the doorbell chimed.

As I handed my painting to the young man, I cautioned him, “Please, be very careful with

this. The paint is still wet. It won’t be completely dry for over a week.”

“This is amazing,” he said.

“You like it?” I asked, surprised. “You like art?”





“Yeah, it’s my dream to be a painter. I’m taking classes”

“That’s wonderful. Don’t ever stop painting. No matter what anyone tells you about

your work, good or bad, don’t ever stop. You will come across so many people, ignorant people,

who will try to persuade you to stop.”

“That’s already happening.”

“I bet it is.” I put my hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Trust yourself.”

I considered the role the universe plays in our lives when we stop forcing ourselves down

an unintended path. It could not have been coincidental that this young man had been the one

sent to transport my canvas. I handed him the address where I wanted the painting delivered.

“Give it to the woman whose name I’ve written on the front of this envelope. If a man answers

the door, don’t give it to him. Give the painting and this card only to the woman. Do you

understand?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Thank you,” I said. And a moment later, he was gone.

I laid on the sofa in the living room. The trek up the stairs to my bedroom seemed

impossible. The ferocious exhaustion threatened to crush me. My chest heaved with deep

breaths of satisfaction. I closed my eyes and surrendered to sleep.

The sound of percolating and the smell of freshly brewed coffee woke me nearly seven

hours later. An idea for a new painting had come to me while I slept. I raced over to the small

desk in the living room to grab a pencil and paper. I had to sketch my ideas before I lost them to

consciousness. I drew shapes and lines deliriously, making little notes along the way regarding

color, shading, and texture. Anxious to breathe life into this new concept, I decided to have





some coffee and then head over to the art store to purchase a new canvas. Only then did I realize

that I had not set the coffee maker to brew.

Fear gripped me as I took controlled steps toward the kitchen, praying the creaks of the

old wooden floor would not alert potential intruders to my presence. I thought about it.

Intruders who make coffee? I almost laughed. Peaking around the corner, I saw a man sitting at

my kitchen table, his back to me. His black suit jacket hung over the back of the chair. His

perfectly pressed blue shirt revealed his identity. He turned and smiled, and again I noticed the

depth of his blue eyes.

“Good afternoon,” he said, gesturing me toward the empty seat across the table. A mug

had been placed there in waiting. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine.” I joined him, anxious to understand why he was here, caring little that he had

found his way into my secure house.

“I hope you don’t mind that I made coffee. I figured you would need it after the night

you had. And, in all honesty, I was craving a cup myself.”

“Not at all.”

“How did it feel, finishing that painting?”

“Exhilarating,” I said. “Liberating. Inspiring.”

“She adores it,” he said. “She knows the painting is from you. She doesn’t understand

how you knew so much about her. But she doesn’t care.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve never asked me about my origins. You’ve always accepted that the universe

holds secrets you’ll never understand. She has come to that same conclusion.”

“I’m glad she likes the painting. I wish I could’ve done more.”





“Nothing more is necessary. This morning, the messenger delivered your painting. You

must have had quite the impact on that young man. He stayed with her until he was convinced it

would be safe, explaining that the oils would be damp for at least a week or even longer.” I

remembered how he had admired my work.

He continued, “She spent ten minutes crying and then packed a bag. Just the necessities.

She’ll send friends for the rest of her things. One bag, thrown over her shoulder, she carried her

violin case and your painting, and she left him.”

How free she must have felt at that moment! “Do you think she’ll play again?”

“Absolutely. She is reawakening. Your part is done, Elijah.”

As excited as I was for Estelle, I mourned the other creative souls I could have inspired

had I chosen a more discerning use of my time.

Sensing my regret, my blue-eyed friend said, “How painful it must have been for you to

bolt from the couch this morning, over to that desk, and frantically sketch your next painting!”

I thought about it. “No. I didn’t feel any pain.”

Perplexed, I recalled the arthritis in my wrists as I had painted the previous night, the pain

in my knees, in my back and shoulders. I pushed away from the table, almost spilling my coffee,

and ran to the mirror in the hallway.

I smiled. Immediately, I recognized the face of the young man whose eyes radiated with

a creative passion that daringly tempted madness.

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Cerulean Blue (A Story)