The glimmer of brilliance flashes in his eye as he brings the brush to the blank canvas. The incredibly thin hairs of the brush are loaded with a brunt orange. The first stroke washes the white with a burst of color, bringing the background to life.
He stops.
He picks up another brush, thinner, loads it up with a flesh color, and with a gentle hand sweeps the eyelids of the tender faced boy.
He pulls back, brings the end of he brush to his pursed lips. A faint look of discontent washes over his face. In a rush, as if a fire has been started under his chair, he starts to pack up his paints. Throwing them one by one into the container. Slamming the lid. He grabs a paper towel and wipes his brushes,while he hangs his head.
The demons won this round, I can only assume.
He gingerly picks up the innocent looking face. He stares at blurred color on the canvas and shakes his head without saying a word. I hold my breath. He carries the canvas carefully, almost lovely to rest on the shelf. I can see the longing to finish in his clouded eyes. I don't dare interfere. I have no words for comfort. Nothing I can say will help make things right. He must face this battle alone.
Tomorrow he will once again go into battle with demons and doubt.
In the end he will win, and I will be there to see it and so will you!
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