A Boy’s Dreams on Linen

I had such in-depth and poignant comments posted on the story about my dad, that I thought it was time to share the only little boy picture I have of him. While my mother was the true artist, and my sister has followed suit, Max had a hidden talent for drawing that showed up at a very early age. He just never had the desire to overshadow Mom's talents, so we never heard about them. I think I was in college when I came across three pieces of linen with pictures drawn in crayola. Dad told me that he had drawn them at school when he was about 11 years old.  I marveled at the detail and depth he created on those linen pieces. I think the picture of him was when he was about seven or eight, close to the time of his father's death.

The teacher tapes the flaxen linen to his desk and walks away.

Borders stretched to the edge of the school desk.

He lines up the crayons

Like waxen soldiers awaiting

The call to arms.

His head dances with his dead daddy’s dreams

Of the Copeland Street castle,

Erased by a heart’s explosion.

Fearing the stark blank linen,

He squeezes his eyes shut

Like a vice on steel, bursting

Color behind the eyelids.

Muted blues and greens

Cool the burning fires in his brain and

The wishes, dreams and delights of a faraway place appear.

Now he can see.

He picks up the patient blue

Soldier and draws.

Smooth stones line the path to a cottage in the

Linen’s left corner.