for my dad

I want to talk about the man who painted roses. His name was Ricardo and he never knew no rose, merely painted them.

He painted them everywhere. Everyday. For everyone.

He painted on walls, and on cardboard, and on thick paper, on stone, on glass. He’d mask ugly words with reds, with petals. He had a true gift. He was powerful.

He could paint the light. He could change the colors of the breeze. Change the light that bathed rooms. He painted the windows. He blew cold reds and pinks on people’s cheeks. He turned the white, liquid day into strawberry sunshine. One could smell the paint and smell the dew. The flowers. Spring.

He made the paint off of them, after all. Roses, I mean.

I know I said that Ricardo never knew no rose, and this may sound contradictory, but… well, it wasn’t the same.

The roses he made his paint with were no longer soft. Petals hardened, like fingernails, and the reds near purple. He felt so sad just to touch them. To lay them gently, like a skeletonized mouse, into the bowl. To crush them. It was unbearable for him.

He took death and crushed it into paint. With it he gave life to fields of oil. Acrylic vineyards. Roses.

He rejuvenated the flowers on a flat, dry canvas. Made them grow in barren land. He was a miracle worker, Ricardo.

He gave them to people in wintertime, to those in the blazing desert heat. He sold them to those who had never seen roses. Lonely middle-aged women. Widows. In some occasions, young men. He let them see for themselves. He showed them affection. They adored him. Every single one of them.

But he was never given any real roses.

Not ones that were soft, at least. Not ones that resembled in beauty what he painted. He was never rewarded by his fellow artists, his friends, his co-workers, with a bouquet. With one rose. One was enough. He would have been happy just to have one.

He was never led into a field of hedges, and allowed to wander. He was never made a bed of petals on which to rest himself. His heavy artist body. He wasn’t offered a bucket of water with little floating petals, so that he could submerge his hands in them.

His trembling, hardened hands. So tired of painting.

The skin sank between the bones, and they resembled canyons.

Not a grain of dirt ever spoiled his nails. He had never planted a rose and seen it grown. He had never nurtured it. Never watered it. He had never loved a rose.

His hands were so tired of the dryness of the canvas. Of the wood of the brush. Of the sugary smell of the paint. Of crushing roses.

They wanted to cradle one, only one, their very own, and caress the petals.

They longed to touch thorns and feel the heat of blood, only to know a touch different from that of paper, that of brush, that of wood, that of glass.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

Copyright © Blanca Parga 2021

Hello hello! Long time no story, I know. It’s been over a month since I published The Reading of Phyllis and I haven’t finished any short stories for awhile. But my head is never empty. I’m constantly thinking of new things and characters, I just haven’t go the proper energy at the proper time to narrow down my ambitions into an actual narrative.

But this one was easier. Without going too deep into sharing my personal information, I’ll just say that these past couple of years have been very stressful to me and my family. I’m sure things will turn out well for us but, until then, we’re nervous about what will happen. And this stress has especially affected my dad. He’s a hardworking man with loads of patience and he often feels underappreciated and overwhelmed. He doesn’t see his efforts as worthy of praise as they are.

So the other day was Father’s Day and my mother gave him a rosebush as a gift, since he loves gardening. Her gift was the true inspiration for this and I got to work. The wires started connecting and I finally got a finished story.

Ricardo is supposed to be a mirror of my dad. A man who wants to just sit down and rest for a moment. Who works toward getting something that’s always out of reach. Who deserves roses, from time to time.

So if you have any Ricardo’s in your life, give them a rose sometimes. Let them know that they deserve roses. That they are worthy of them.

As always, thank you so much for reading, and I’ll see you next time. Take care!

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