–C.S. Lewis
I think it was in the middle
of November when I first noticed the painting moving. I believe it was then,
because I remember the snow swirling outside the window in the living room next
to my rocking chair. I was halfway finished knitting a scarf for John. When I
saw the grey yarn at the craft store it reminded me of his eyes; dark and
quiet. Yes, it must have been the middle of November, because my normal radio
station had just started playing Christmas music. I remember that I was pulling
out a flawed stitch when I looked up and saw the movement for the first time.
John had bought the painting years ago at an outdoor art fair, because he said
it reminded him of Turner and he had always liked Turner. I liked the painting
too. The massive ship on the torrid waves had always captivated me. But I was
not captivated when I saw the waves crashing against the ship and spraying
foamy green water into the dark violet background; I was frightened. My needles
dropped out of my hands and onto my lap and the music seemed to suddenly
dampen, as if somebody had thrown a down comforter over the radio. I watched as
the waves continued to bombard the ship and wondered if I had gone mad. I
looked around the room to see if there was anything else unusual. The
snowflakes were still whipping past the window, Rascal was curled up on the
couch and twitching her whiskers as she dreamed, and Elvis was crooning “I’ll
Be Home for Christmas.” I looked back at the painting and gasped as a flash of
lightning illuminated the floundering ship. I began to wonder if I was dreaming
and decided the best thing to do was to believe that I was and pretend that the
movement was completely normal. With shaking hands, I picked my needles back up
and continued to knit as my mind raced. People always talked about people who
lived alone. Especially if they were older. They said it did things to you.
Made you see things. Hear things. I looked back up at the painting. The ship
was surmounting a gigantic and unforgiving wave. I started to knit faster. They
kept telling me that John was dead. As if I didn’t know. I did know. I
remembered his funeral. Putting him in the ground. I felt a chill run through
me and thought about the cold ground. John’s Sunday suit wasn’t keeping him
warm. I listened to Elvis and remembered the war. Elvis had fought, hadn’t he?
No, he hadn’t. He left. Or did he ever go? Yes, he had, but not for very long.
John went. Spent time on the Western Front. But he didn’t like to talk about
it. At least, not to me. I looked back up and saw the waves subsiding. I
relaxed my grip on the needles and smiled as Rascal stretched and changed her
position on the couch. John had been a good husband. Quiet, but good. Never
complained. Always ate what I set in front of him. Always wore the sweaters I
made him even when his poker buddies teased him. Elvis was gone. Now it was a
singer I didn’t recognize. Why did the radio play new music? What was wrong
with the old songs? John sometimes woke up during the night. Crying. I would
wrap the blanket around him and he would go back to sleep. The waves were calm
now. I tied the final knot on the scarf. He would wake up the next morning and
not remember what had happened during the night, so I wouldn’t bring it up. I
would just make him an extra fried egg and give him an extra kiss before he
left the house. I didn’t know where he went during the day. He worked at the
post-office, but only part-time. I knew when his shifts were and he would come
back home hours after they ended. But I never made a fuss. Just gave him a kiss
and was glad he was home. I looked up at the painting. The sun was peeking out
from behind a dark grey cloud. The sky wasn’t violet anymore, but pink. The ship
seemed to be resting. The snow had stopped falling outside the window and “Blue
Christmas” came on the radio. I smiled and folded up the scarf as I imagined
wrapping it around John’s neck when he finally came home.
