It’s another rainy evening, the clock just struck midnight and I’m painting in the art studio. There’s orange paint on my hands, and green paint in my hair, and just as I finish, memories of my father flood my brain. I look around the studio at the painted garden I’ve created, and in my heart, I know that this is ‘his’ garden. My father was a good person—kind, loyal, responsible, and trustworthy. I just never thought of him as a muse for my artwork.
My father and I were night owls and he’d text me jokes and I’d text him photos of my artwork in progress. Now after midnight, my phone is silent. The moment I had dreaded, ever since he was diagnosed with cancer, had somehow caught me by surprise. His decline had been so gradual that even the battery of tests performed by his oncologist barely showed a change during the first year. Then, suddenly, he was gone.
The sight of his funeral flooded with fragrant blooms remains in my memory and even though painting these flowers was an emotional challenge, they quickly became a comforting experience. So, now in my grief during the silence of the night, I paint flowers blooming under a moonlit sky. My father always told me to ‘Live your life’ and now my father lives on in every brushstroke and every petal.
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The Midnight Garden.
The Artist & Her Father.
The Midnight Garden in progress.
