Thingum Bob Esq.
New member
When two people stare at a picture, one says to the
other "It's staring at me." The other argues, "No,
it's staring at me."
My father and I sat together quietly.
I had moved in to assist him with his failing health. He couldn't walk any longer.
I was back once again at this old house I grew up in. I hated it.
It always reminded me of a spiders web with eyes to catch every move.
A portrait of an ancestor, lost to memory, hung in the same place as I remembered from my earliest youth.
My father knew I hated it, and it was better off silent than to make meaningless conversation, for that is where our talk would end up.
Trying to break the ice I asked my father "Is the picture staring at you?"
"No." was the reply as he looked approvingly to the portrait.
Puzzled, I told him our ancestor was staring at me. He was indifferent.
I brushed this off as my father fooling with me. He had always done this in my youth. Consciously, I felt this portrait had run it's course.
I'd always hated this portrait, not for who the man was, but for it's ugly appearance and the space it occupied on the wall, not to mention the uneasy feeling I had always had towards it.
As I grew older, the picture remained, sometimes strewn with cobwebs and dust, sometimes cleaned.
My dad would never allow me to move it. "It's part of the family."
My thoughts were: "It's part of the house."
When I would pass it, the eyes seemed to follow me.
When I stared at it, it stared back with it's never-changing eyes. That slight shit-eating grin seemingly mocked my distrust.
A time comes when one has had enough. I made my decision. I have the power of attorney. It's going to the closet.
Without permission from my father, and unbeknownst to him, I decided to put it away by telling to him it would be protected better in the closet for our future generations.
I began to take it off the wall. It didn't budge. With all my strength
I tried to pry it off. Nothing.
I looked behind it and saw it was simply hanging by a nail.
Confusion was followed by a slight fear as I stood face to face and
eye to eye with this 'stranger', and from my periphery I swear
I saw his grin turn to a sinister smile. My fear was grew, and I was losing my skepticism.
I left the room in haste.
I controlled my emotions so they would not get the best of me.
That night I thought the man in the picture was thinking of me.
Like concrete it was fixed to the wall, with nothing but
wire, nail, and sheet rock that would crumble with the slightest touch.
I woke the next morning thinking myself a fool for what I had experienced.
I walked in on my father as he sat quietly in his wheelchair sipping his favorite blended coffee. It sure as hell wasn't Starbucks.
He looked to me and asked if I could straighten
the portrait. My head whipped around with widened eyes.
Sorry Liz, I thought you only read part II.
This place needs to add more room!
other "It's staring at me." The other argues, "No,
it's staring at me."
My father and I sat together quietly.
I had moved in to assist him with his failing health. He couldn't walk any longer.
I was back once again at this old house I grew up in. I hated it.
It always reminded me of a spiders web with eyes to catch every move.
A portrait of an ancestor, lost to memory, hung in the same place as I remembered from my earliest youth.
My father knew I hated it, and it was better off silent than to make meaningless conversation, for that is where our talk would end up.
Trying to break the ice I asked my father "Is the picture staring at you?"
"No." was the reply as he looked approvingly to the portrait.
Puzzled, I told him our ancestor was staring at me. He was indifferent.
I brushed this off as my father fooling with me. He had always done this in my youth. Consciously, I felt this portrait had run it's course.
I'd always hated this portrait, not for who the man was, but for it's ugly appearance and the space it occupied on the wall, not to mention the uneasy feeling I had always had towards it.
As I grew older, the picture remained, sometimes strewn with cobwebs and dust, sometimes cleaned.
My dad would never allow me to move it. "It's part of the family."
My thoughts were: "It's part of the house."
When I would pass it, the eyes seemed to follow me.
When I stared at it, it stared back with it's never-changing eyes. That slight shit-eating grin seemingly mocked my distrust.
A time comes when one has had enough. I made my decision. I have the power of attorney. It's going to the closet.
Without permission from my father, and unbeknownst to him, I decided to put it away by telling to him it would be protected better in the closet for our future generations.
I began to take it off the wall. It didn't budge. With all my strength
I tried to pry it off. Nothing.
I looked behind it and saw it was simply hanging by a nail.
Confusion was followed by a slight fear as I stood face to face and
eye to eye with this 'stranger', and from my periphery I swear
I saw his grin turn to a sinister smile. My fear was grew, and I was losing my skepticism.
I left the room in haste.
I controlled my emotions so they would not get the best of me.
That night I thought the man in the picture was thinking of me.
Like concrete it was fixed to the wall, with nothing but
wire, nail, and sheet rock that would crumble with the slightest touch.
I woke the next morning thinking myself a fool for what I had experienced.
I walked in on my father as he sat quietly in his wheelchair sipping his favorite blended coffee. It sure as hell wasn't Starbucks.
He looked to me and asked if I could straighten
the portrait. My head whipped around with widened eyes.
Sorry Liz, I thought you only read part II.
This place needs to add more room!