The Beauty of Life
Jane Walter Venzke
Harry paused for a moment in front of his easel looking at the
beautiful rose he had picked up to study it more carefully. He
could hear the muffled sounds of voices in the corridor of Green
Briar Terrace through the crack of the door. It was always
comforting to him to hear voices while he painted.
Gazing at the rose he pondered a moment in his life when he
strolled through the wooded park on the dirt walking path
outside the home he shared with his wife and daughter. He was
younger then. His daughter, who had tragically died at 16 when
she was hit by a drunk driver, was his constant companion on
those treks. How beautiful she was and how much promise she held
for an artistic career. When returning from their walks, she
would write stories about the feel of the dirt road, the smell
of the grass, and the warmth of the sun streaming through the
trees while he painted his rendition of the walk. How
delightful, he thought it was to listen to his daughter read her
story with his partially completed painting in the background
and his dear wife beside him.
He looked more closely at the rose, a little obscured by the
tears and remembered those special walks, not with regret or
self pity but with joy for the moments that he had with the two
women who had meant the most to him.
Turning back to his easel he carefully painted perfect red
petals and with each a beautiful memory. The artist in him knew
this was so much more than a vase of flowers. His life was
coming to an end and he was capturing his memories. He had
already named the painting: The Beauty of Life.
Copyright © Jane Venzke 2008