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Star-Struck |
9/15/1998 |
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A short story by CIBYG |
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Is there a better way
to immortalize a mother’s love for her child than to paint it with as a picture? I do
not believe so. I have seen a wondrous portrait of a mother and her child and observing it
led me into a world of creation and imagination. When a painting has caught a moment like
nothing else can, one can do nothing but stand Starstruck--staring into the picture,
creating a world out of the picture and becoming a part of the picture.
The portrait is as
clear in my mind as the computer in front of me. The background is black: nothing has been
painted to fill in the surroundings. There is no light or shadows, just a mother holding
her baby girl in her arms. She wears an opaque white nightgown that flows as if she has
been moving, but her stance indicates that she has been standing still. Her baby is
wrapped warmly in a cozy blanket with her mother’s arms snug around her body. The
baby is pressed against the mother’s breast, her mother’s heartbeat soothing her
to sleep. The mother’s body seems to glow, illuminating the surrounding darkness,
caressing and enveloping the baby in the warmth of the mother’s love.
The mother’s eyes
are bright blue and her skin is pinkish white. Her nightgown flows from her ankles and her
wrists, revealing only her bare feet and her soft hands. Her shoulder length hair is soft
brown, thick and curly at the end. It is pushed out of her eyes, off to the sides of her
face. Her body’s frame is medium, like that of the Goddess Venus, the archetypal
mother. She stands steadfast like an oak tree, unyielding in her quest to patiently calm
her child back to sleep. Her shoulders are high, confident in her abilities. Her whole
physique honors the generations of mothers past and all the mothers to come.
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As I stare into the
picture, I now notice that there are trees around the mother. The darkness has made way to
form. There are tiny woodland creatures peaking around tree trunks and protruding rocks.
The surroundings have formed into a grassy glade; the winter’s moonlight softens the
scene. The clouds partially hide the moon’s light, softening it to a very dim glow
while the bare tree limbs, stripped by the coming of winter, all but diminish the light
completely, leaving but a soft touch accented by the mother’s natural glow. It’s
as if the whole scene has been touched by an angel.
As the world
surrounding the mother takes form, I begin to see movement. The trees sway softly in a
steady rhythm from a gentle winter’s breeze. The brown leaves of fall, what few are
left, quietly make their way past the scene, avoiding the aura of the mother. The
mother’s gown sways in unison with the trees as she softly sings a lullaby to calm
her child back to sleep--her eyes locked upon that which she holds most dear. The
surroundings should be cold by now, but there is soft warmth coming from within the
mother’s heart creating a comfortable enclosure like a cozy blanket on a cold
winter’s night. The baby quietly sleeps knowing her mother is by her side. There is
no hatred to corrupt the scene; love and warmth comfort the enclosed glade.
As I stare at the
portrait, I find myself a part of the scene. As I glance around, the world that I once was
a part of, the person who was looking at the portrait, no longer exists. Now, only the
glade with the mother and her child that I am a part of exist for me. I look up at the
scene as if I am one of the leaves flowing by, catching a glance of the scene. The longer
I look, I now realize it’s as if I am a toy in the top of a toy box, awakened by the
child’s cries. Perhaps I am a nightlight on the wall, lighting the way for the mother
to return at a moment’s notice to her sleeping beauty’s side.
In this dreamlike
state, I could have lived the rest of my life; in this world, it’s as if I actually
have. "Reality" returns and I find myself in a mall, looking at a hand painted
portrait, a sample in the window of a studio.
I know now that a
portrait, this portrait, will always hold a glimpse into the essence of a mother’s
love for her child.
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