The Fading Colors of My Canvas

So smooth, so taut, the stretched canvas wore an air of inviting all color and creativity one could pour onto it, pure and untouched, full of promise of something great, fabulous to be born. The magnum opus, the reflection of life that I so longed to live—my dreams in colors spoke volumes of ambition, love, passion, with each strike bold and virile.

With every color, it was animated, with a choice of the best brushes and pigments. And daily, I continued on canvas after canvas, thinking something great was being created herein. Every color had its meaning-deep blue for my aspirations, crimson reds for my desires, and golden yellows for the joy I chased. I liked what I was doing, proud of the way it all sounded until this picture started taking shape. Every choice convinced me that every stroke was creating a perfect life.

But time dulls even the brightest hues. The colors I had put on with such determination were now fading. At first, I didn't see it, for the changes were gradual and almost imperceptible. It is only now, standing in front of my creation in later years, that I realize how those colors which had so much brilliance now have faded out: they became whitewashed through the wear and tear caused by time and the choices that I made.

The areas where I had painted over old mistakes, just covering them up and hoping to fix them, had been completely worn through; the constant reworking had thinned the fabric underneath. My attempts at perfection had left holes, gaps where beauty should have been.

And then there were the others: people I let in my life, each with his brush in hand. At first, I welcomed these other contributions; it entered my mind that by sharing my canvas I was going to be enriching the artwork. And at first they added splashes of color, bringing in new perceptions, new vitality. Their strokes combined with mine, and for a time the painting appeared more magnificent, more complex.

But not all of them were cautious painters. Some left their marks-careless daubs which could not be removed or painted over. Others, in their want of care, drained the color from parts of my life most vibrant and beautiful. They brought stains and spills; each one of them marked my canvas in some indelible fashion. Of course, those who pained most were those who had a knife in one hand while holding one brush in one hand. They cut deep into my life's fabric, taking with them large chunks of the picture I had struggled so hard to create.

And her, dearest of them all, would tone the bright hues down. Hers were the delicate strokes that made the picture fair in ways I never could have believed. Then it was more mine for a while, because it was ours. But when she left, not only did she take her colors away with herself, she ripped off that part of the canvas from where our lives had been touching. And no matter how many layers I painted upon it, I could never fill that gaping hole.

Now I stand before the canvas and see what remains, not the masterpiece I had envisaged.

The edges are frayed, the colors dulled, and the gaps are more than I'd like to admit. The surface, once smooth to the touch, now feels rough and uneven, whittled away by time and regret. Nor would the places that others had left their mark on be ever completely erased again. I'd thought a person could keep control over the picture, but life works itself into even the best-laid plans.

I back off and start to take stock. The colors that matter to me seep through still, though now muted. The blues have faded to pale, the reds have mellowed, and the gold is stale, like some worn bronze. The canvas itself is chipped and fragile, hanging by threads in some places and rent in others. What's left is the crazy quilt of my life—part of it beautiful, part scarred by missteps and losses.

The ability to hold the brushes as I did before is gone. The hands shake, for every new stroke may tear off the fabric more and more. All this time, I had led life thinking that I could paint over mistakes, that with every mistake, I find new colors each time to color up the picture. Now I realize there are marks you can't hide-no paints will cover up the damage. It's not that big masterpiece I would have wanted to paint really but rather reflecting a choice in my life. Well, some beauty was still there, yet emptiness was there where it used to be filled with those who took more than they gave. Before me, the work of a lifetime had hung in tatters; my canvas was worn, showing the journey that had never been as perfect as it had been imagined. One final glance at my creation, all its imperfections, the flaws, and the faded colors of everything. It is mine, warts and all. So this is my baby, not quite as I'd dreamed of, though still it's mine.