[last lines]
John (50 years old):
[voice-over]
That's how I like to remember him: his brush dancing across the canvas like a ballerina dancing across the stage. I'd like to tell you that Nicholi lived many more years, that I'd given him some kind of gift or remembrance of what he once was. But I think that'd be too big an assumption for me to make, and perhaps a bit of a lie. Nicholi passed away that spring. With his passing, a part of me died along with him. I gave up painting for several years. I heard later that he gave the house to Carla. She designed most of it anyway, and I think they both knew it was going to end up that way. Other interests would lead me west. But the older I got, the more Nicholi's thoughts came back to guide me, and all the gifts he'd given me. I still see trees as rooted men, or nudes dancing on a hillside, or the clouds as a place where angels hide. It took me years to realize that Nicholi wasn't really gone; that all this time he was still here, living inside of me, patiently waiting to take the journey shared, but most of all for me to keep a promise that I made to myself a very long time ago: that Nicholi's heart would be my home all the days of my life.
Riportata da il
05/03/2025 alle ore 08:15
Consiglia
Voto
Nessun dato in archivio
Commenti
Nessun dato in archivio
