with another one of his intense looks, which say more than words ever could.
Again, I look away and break the spell.
The connection severed, he twists to the side and picks up a sketchpad I hadn’t realized was on the floor next to him. I watch confused as he flips a few pages back and forth, catching a brief glimpse on one page of what looks like the meadow below us, but I can’t be certain. Towards the end, he finds the page he’s looking for and tears it out. Turning it over before I can take a good look at it, he scribbles something on the back with the pencil that was sitting in the sketchbook’s spiral.
Bringing his legs in, he stands up and, still clutching the page in his left hand, puts the sketchbook into a black rucksack, which I also hadn’t noticed, before slinging it over his shoulder.
“I have to go.” His voice is heavy with regret. “But this is for you.” He holds out the sketch for me to take. When I look down at it, I’m frozen in shock and awe. I think I stop breathing for a moment.
“You… you did this?” I ask him, unable to move my gaze from the page.
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Just after the funeral. I had to capture it. Do you like it?”
“It’s…it’s everything ,” I tell him as my voice cracks on the last words full of unshed tears and emotion that are threating to flow over the surface. I’d rather stare at the sketch, but I lift my watery eyes to his relieved ones. “You’re incredible; this is incredible. Thank you. Thank you ,” I say before my eyes swing back down to look at Tristan’s incredible sketch of my brother and me playing in the sea today.
The level of detail is breathtaking. He is awe-inspiringly talented. I wish I had the words to tell him how much this image, this moment, he’s captured and immortalized in lead, means to me; but all coherent thought has been suspended with emotion the only thing left in its wake.
In the sketch, which is so precise it could very well be a black and white photo, I’m swinging Oscar around gazing adoringly up at him, as he looks down at me with glee. You can tell that we are the only thing that exists for each other in that moment.
The connection between my baby brother and me threatens to jump off the page, straight into the soul of the observer. You can almost hear the sound of our laughter; feel the depth of our love. The raging sea beneath my toes provides the perfect backdrop to our delight. He’s captured everything, every strand of my hair, every wisp of wind.
And the very best part is that standing in the distance along the shore, his smiling face watching us with pride, is an exquisitely exact image of my dad.
Somehow, Tristan knew he was there .
They say you can’t take your possessions with you when you die. I want to be buried with this sketch, to carry it with me always, in this lifetime and all the ones that follow.
“I will treasure this forever,” I say with nothing but truth.
“I’m glad, Baby Bear.” His lips quirk up in a soft smile as he hesitates again before squeezing my shoulder. “It was a pleasure meeting you properly, Matilda Evans, and sharing your favorite place in the world. I very much hope our paths cross again soon. I have a feeling they will,” he says before swinging his legs backwards out of the treehouse and resting them on the rope ladder.
And before I can even say goodbye, he’s gone. At the sound of his feet thudding on the ground, I lean over to see him give me a salute, before he turns and walks away through the meadow, never looking back.
I’m so preoccupied looking at the drawing that it takes me a while to realize that I never took his contact information. I have no way of ensuring I see him again, and he didn’t give me any. I don’t even know his last name. A crushing sense of disappointment floods me.
While he’s given me priceless memories, I can’t shake the feeling that I was destined to get more from him. More of what, I don’t know. More
Again, I look away and break the spell.
The connection severed, he twists to the side and picks up a sketchpad I hadn’t realized was on the floor next to him. I watch confused as he flips a few pages back and forth, catching a brief glimpse on one page of what looks like the meadow below us, but I can’t be certain. Towards the end, he finds the page he’s looking for and tears it out. Turning it over before I can take a good look at it, he scribbles something on the back with the pencil that was sitting in the sketchbook’s spiral.
Bringing his legs in, he stands up and, still clutching the page in his left hand, puts the sketchbook into a black rucksack, which I also hadn’t noticed, before slinging it over his shoulder.
“I have to go.” His voice is heavy with regret. “But this is for you.” He holds out the sketch for me to take. When I look down at it, I’m frozen in shock and awe. I think I stop breathing for a moment.
“You… you did this?” I ask him, unable to move my gaze from the page.
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Just after the funeral. I had to capture it. Do you like it?”
“It’s…it’s everything ,” I tell him as my voice cracks on the last words full of unshed tears and emotion that are threating to flow over the surface. I’d rather stare at the sketch, but I lift my watery eyes to his relieved ones. “You’re incredible; this is incredible. Thank you. Thank you ,” I say before my eyes swing back down to look at Tristan’s incredible sketch of my brother and me playing in the sea today.
The level of detail is breathtaking. He is awe-inspiringly talented. I wish I had the words to tell him how much this image, this moment, he’s captured and immortalized in lead, means to me; but all coherent thought has been suspended with emotion the only thing left in its wake.
In the sketch, which is so precise it could very well be a black and white photo, I’m swinging Oscar around gazing adoringly up at him, as he looks down at me with glee. You can tell that we are the only thing that exists for each other in that moment.
The connection between my baby brother and me threatens to jump off the page, straight into the soul of the observer. You can almost hear the sound of our laughter; feel the depth of our love. The raging sea beneath my toes provides the perfect backdrop to our delight. He’s captured everything, every strand of my hair, every wisp of wind.
And the very best part is that standing in the distance along the shore, his smiling face watching us with pride, is an exquisitely exact image of my dad.
Somehow, Tristan knew he was there .
They say you can’t take your possessions with you when you die. I want to be buried with this sketch, to carry it with me always, in this lifetime and all the ones that follow.
“I will treasure this forever,” I say with nothing but truth.
“I’m glad, Baby Bear.” His lips quirk up in a soft smile as he hesitates again before squeezing my shoulder. “It was a pleasure meeting you properly, Matilda Evans, and sharing your favorite place in the world. I very much hope our paths cross again soon. I have a feeling they will,” he says before swinging his legs backwards out of the treehouse and resting them on the rope ladder.
And before I can even say goodbye, he’s gone. At the sound of his feet thudding on the ground, I lean over to see him give me a salute, before he turns and walks away through the meadow, never looking back.
I’m so preoccupied looking at the drawing that it takes me a while to realize that I never took his contact information. I have no way of ensuring I see him again, and he didn’t give me any. I don’t even know his last name. A crushing sense of disappointment floods me.
While he’s given me priceless memories, I can’t shake the feeling that I was destined to get more from him. More of what, I don’t know. More
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