He Came Back

He Came Back


He came back.

Wrapped like a mummy.

Wrapped like the Tower of Pisa.

Wrapped like a giant bar of precious chocolate.

He came back.

Because I asked.  I asked to borrow him again.  I wanted to take more pictures.  I wanted to see his face again.  I didn’t know I would paint him again.  I don’t remember if I was even planning to paint him again.  I had no ideas for new paintings. 


But now he is back.  He seems full of expectancy.  Or is that me?  Is that what I’m seeing, my expectancy in him? Never mind.  He is here.

Because I asked.  I have no idea what we’ll do this time.  His return seems the important thing, for now.  His return. 

Years ago I was in a play called Return Trip.  I have forgotten what the return trip actually was, who came back or why they came back?  It wasn’t a very good play.  Yet I do believe in return trips.  I believe in revisiting the past, in going back to have another look.  So much is missed the first time.  Whether it’s a place, or a movie, or a song, or the past itself, in general or in particular.  Sometimes we have to go back in order to go forward.  Ask any memoir writer.

While the Little Man has been gone I’ve painted a door under water, the face of a goddess I once saw in a vision, peaches, pears, plums, strawberries, two cats, and a building in Manhattan.  I started a painting of a young woman stirring a pot in the kitchen over the stove.  It was my kitchen.  Quite a large canvas too, with the window and curtains behind her, but I never finished it.

I also started a small watercolor of one of the cats.  It’s not finished yet either, but it will be.

Then, I called the Little Man back.  The unfinished watercolor of the cat lies untouched on the drafting table.  I should finish her first.

The Little Man is back, and I’m painting the cat.