ART & FICTION BY PAUL & KATHY BOECHER

Everything Paul painted came with a story. That’s why we were so compatible. He would create lovely works in which only the subject matter would stir the imagination. I would find several possibilities for stories or poetry to go along with them. When I first saw this painting, my thoughts went to the urban dictionary definition of the word, HOOD. It is likened to a ghetto or a location where thieves and thugs hung out. It could also refer to some kind of covering for the head which was attached to a sweatshirt or jacket. The possibilities are endless for a setting like this, but this is my interpretation for today

It was a serene place, with silence broken only by the sound of a bird or an insect humming. Filled with leaves as a headdress, the trees almost talked as you walked through the stillness. If only they could talk, it would be interesting to know what they had to say. How many others came to this place with tears in their eyes? The sound of laughter could be heard too. Some would sit on this bench and converse for a while. Others would take a brief rest from a run. It was a refuge for her.

The word “HOOD” was printed on the top of the bench. A robin sat on the edge, catching his breath and thinking about his next stop. A couple walked hand in hand through the expanse, thinking about nothing but each other. An elderly woman came next, clutching her purse taking care with each step she took. It was an everyday part of her routine. She’d rise with the morning sun and thank Jesus for another day. Then she’d hobble to her bathroom, run a brush through her thick hair, brush her few remaining teeth and wash her face. She was a creature of habit. Every morning was the same. Each day was becoming so.

Time has a way of catching up with us as we age. There are times when there are never enough hours in a day. There are days that seem to fly by and ignore the numbers on a calendar. Days you can’t remember what day it is. The woman’s daily ritual always would include this place unless torrents of rain were falling or the frigid winter kept her inside. It was her place to talk with God, to plan her day, to pray. The prayers seemed to focus on her future, what was left of it and how she would survive without him. They’d spent a lifetime together. They met when very young. It was quite a while since he went to heaven, but her heart still yearned for his touch, his laughter, his crazy sense of humor. The deep sting of her loss remained in her heart, but each day became a little easier.

A gardener was tending the flowers and busily pulling weeds. He grabbed his broom and began to sweep in her direction. He had become a new friend as she sat there each day. They chatted for a while. He asked how she was doing. She told him that things were okay. They exchanged a few words as he continued to work. Memories began to fill her mind and escaped through her tears.

The gardener couldn’t help but notice. He sat beside her, took her hand and said,

“It’s going to get better, trust me. I’ve experienced a loss such as yours. We all have to face death someday – even you and me.” He handed her his handkerchief. She composed herself saying,

“I know you’re right. I’ve come to grips with that. I know that the day will come when I can join him.” She began to return the handkerchief, realizing it wasn’t the right thing to do. “I’ll wash it and bring it back tomorrow, if you like.”

“You can keep it.” He continued to sweep. “If you need a shoulder to cry on, I’ll be here tomorrow too.” She nodded her head as he swept the weeds and clippings in a bucket. “Have a good day, Mrs. Hood.”

The words were enough. She grabbed her purse and went home. She wouldn’t return the next day. Time stopped.