He gave her a flower, a Genus Viola. He yanked it out of the soft brown soil from among the low growing viola of small flowers. It was her favourite. Every time he brought her violets, she said it touched her soul. He had seen her peering into his grandma’s garden and the look of delight on her face when he had told her she could pluck as many as she wanted warmed his heart that day. She came back everyday and they soon became friends.
“Looking at the violets make me feel like I am in some beautiful trance,” she would say. She said it inspired her to paint. She was an artist, her creative work had to show sensitivity and imagination, emotion and the violets inspired that. Soon he also came to represent that emotion. He took the place of the violets, watching him as he gave her the flowers. His skin brown from exposure to the sun and his wide hands rough from hard work. Wide eyed she would place her delicate hands which contrasted sharply with his in their fairness and softness. Looking up to his face, her beautiful face would lighten up as her lips curled in a smile, and he would smile back sharply.
There had been a day, the violet had dropped out of his hand and when he bent to pick it up, she ran her fingers lightly through his hair. A very shy thank you emanated from her lips before she turned and disappeared out of sight. He had struck a chord in her and she made up her mind to paint a portrait of him. That was truly the day he became her violet.
She had to paint him so she could have him and his memories for ever. She didn’t want him to wither like the violets. She needed to capture those big eye balls of his, soft and brown like the colours of violet. She needed to capture the warmth in his face anytime he handed her the flowers. She needed to capture the sadness that lurked underneath his gentleness. He lost everything he to the Second World War. His family all gone, he was alone. The bad egg in the family, only grandmother had understood him. Following his family’s death, he moved to Grandma Anna’s house and tended her violets like they were life itself. He knew Grandma Anna was going to leave soon. She was dying and maybe that explained why he took care of the violets even more than usual, she loved them just as much as the strange girl that came for the flowers daily.
Wiling he shared Grandma Anna’s flowers with her. He gave her the violets just to see her smile. The violets would be all he would have left after Grandma Anna’s death but he didn’t mind sharing it with her. They could share the memories. She wanted violets, violets she would get.
At last she painted not him but a stalk of violet, in dark backgrounds. A lonesome flower standing in darkness.