Meeting the Artist

Now Fledgling’s family wasn’t very close; indeed, they had lots of problems.  Her mother worked very hard as a seamstress in a shop in the town center, while her dad fixed people’s plumbing problems all day and spent most evenings at the local tavern, laughing uproariously at his friends’ ribaldry as he downed his umpteenth pint of ale.   (Fledgling knew this because her mother had sent her to fetch something at the store one late summer afternoon and she passed by the tavern and heard her father’s voice.  She poked her head in the door, hoping to get her to come home with her.  But as soon as she saw him and what was happening, she scurried away, cheeks blazing red with embarrassment before anyone spotted her.)

No, her parents weren’t harsh, they just weren’t around much. And when they were, they were too tired and so obviously struggling with their own problems that they had no energy or desire to listen to her talk about her life.  Her brother, Spunk, was fun and carefree, but seemed far more drawn to his trouble-making friends than to his younger, shy sister.  

Fledgling just wanted one friend who understood her and accepted her for who she was.  So, in spite of the warnings from her schoolmates that the old artist was a fuddy-duddy and would talk her out of any fun she might hope to have in life, she decided one day to take a chance and go see him.  She knew two others at school who regularly went to his house and they actually seemed more content and less wild than everyone else she knew.  And her favorite teacher, the Greek one, also visited Mr. Love occasionally.  When she asked questions, they almost glowed when they discussed him.

So, overwhelmed by the harsh remark, she tucked her fear away and slowly tread the narrow, uphill, dirt road to his house.  (Everyone knew where it was, so it wasn’t hard to find, just an arduous journey for anyone who didn’t live nearby—and few did.) When she finally got there, she timidly grasped the heavy brass knocker in her small, pale hand and let it go once.  She didn’t hear anything, so tried holding the T-shaped knocker—unlike any she’d seen before—tapping it lightly on the brass plate behind it.  Then she heard footsteps inside.

Suddenly, nervousness gripped her heart and she was tempted to run.  But before she could, the door opened, and the tall, strong shoulders she looked up at bent over and she could see his eyes.  The depth inside of them overwhelmed her, but even moreso, she could see in his gaze a kindness she’d never before encountered.  It was like liquid gold.

“Good afternoon.  Did you come to see my artwork?” he asked.  His voice was like sunshine; it made her heart feel warmed and she was so drawn to Mr. Love, she couldn’t say anything, but just nodded “yes.”

He opened the door wider, and proclaimed, “You are welcome; come in!”

Still none-too-sure of herself, but deeply hoping he was as nice as the others told her, she stepped forward, one foot at a time.  And that’s when she saw another smaller man walk by the doorway.  She could feel his presence better than she even could see him as he quickly made his way to another room in the house. 

Watching her gaze, Mr. Love said, “Oh, that’s my brother, Comfort.  He lives here with my son, Victor, and I.  They’re really wonderful, and hopefully, you’ll be able to meet them sometime!”  She could actually feel the pure, but intense love he had for these two men in his voice, and it almost made her cry.  She’d never felt a love like that in her entire life.