I can see him trying. I can see, in most moments, that he is making an effort to paint over all the old, ugly graffiti in our world with fresh, bright-colored paint. I can see that he is trying the best he can to keep the old words from bleeding through. I can see it. I'm watching. And I'm hesitantly, silently, cheering him on. He may not know it, but I am not a fairweather fan. I've been cheering him on even when he was having a losing season.
Sometimes he picks up the old spray paint can and starts to fall back into the familiar art of the graffiti. I speak up or walk away or just wait. And he picks up the paintbrush and goes back to work on the bright, new layer again. I can see it. I can feel it. I know it is happening. I cheer him on, in my way.
But I'm not ready to move back into his picture. I'm not washed of the graffiti. I can still feel it. Those words are still written on me. And I know the spray paint can is still within his reach. It isn't empty. It isn't discarded. It is still there and I'm not ready. I have lost my impatience. I can wait.
But, while he is in his own battle against which art he decides will be his future, I have my own part of the wall. I am painting my own picture. With hues of beautiful orange and red sunsets, turquoise water and deep blue seas, green and yellow turtles, bold colored dresses that flow in the sea breeze, and the smiling faces of the people I meet. And I am peeking at his work and hoping again, that somehow our two works can come back together. I thought I had lost that hope, given up on the idea because the art of us had diverged too much. But I find myself hoping again that somehow the ugly graffiti wall that is still between us is swallowed up by the connection of our separate bright, beautiful, new experiences.
And we can move back together. And our art can become a collage again.
But I'm not ready yet.
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