THE DARK FIFTEEN

June the first. He's finally here. He seems different; not quite as vivacious as I last saw him. His eyes looked darker, and there was no sign of Mrs. Henderson anywhere, but he did bring some paint and many canvases. I wonder where she is.

Every day, at six pm. in the main Miami beach there he was. Concentrated, admiring the beautiful view that painted a sunset, as if he was searching for some form of peace in between his deep sorrow.

June the first, he was at the beach; June second, at the beach, June third, fourth, and fifth, there he was over and over again so focused and centered in his work. He seemed so stuck to the idea that everything should be perfect and reflect the happiness that he felt, or did he?

I didn’t understand why, but I did notice something had changed after June fifteen. The pictures he drew seemed so peculiar from the ones he had drawn before. Darker. Sadder. Lonelier. And so was he.

I don’t understand, what happened? Yesterday was fine, and now it was as if a part of him had washed away with the waves. The sky was still the same. That orangey-pink tone with some shades of yellow, but he always drew it black and gray from June fifteen to June thirtieth.

He also wouldn’t speak to anyone or show any of his “dark” paintings, as if he was always trying to hide his new work. He did like to exhibit his lighter paintings though, and he showed me the one he did on the tenth. It was marvelous. The way he displayed the beauty of the sun reflected on the ocean was incredibly breathtaking. But after the fifteenth, no sign of the paintings; he kept them to himself.

He left Miami on July first, but not without leaving behind a painting at my door with a note that read: “When something is too hard to say, find another way of expressing it.”

I wonder what he meant by that…