Beat The Clock.

Jan 26 - Face

The art studio was packed to the brim with people, milling around the see the Pollock's progeny's last works before her untimely demise. Stocked to the brim with people drinking champagne from flutes and women walking in impossibly high heeled shoes. These were the people I once wanted to be a part of. These were the people I allowed inside my soul for them to shrink all of my wild ideas away. And as I watch them now, I realize I have lost so much. For they will name these horrible wrecks of paintings mine - these temporary stains on white walls, lighted just right to see the dredge in just the right light.

I fade back, watching them all like fish in an aquarium. Smiling as they bump into each other.

A tattooed hand rested itself reassuringly on my ghostly shoulder. "Will they see your true work, mija?"

"Yes, abulito. Once the hour is up, they'll show my final work."

"A masterpiece," his wispy voice say into my ear.

I smile at him, taking his hand in mine. "Yes, it is."

My former art manager rolls out a cart covered in red velvet. The crowd draws to a hush before it revealed. Mimicking the movements, I wait for the grand finale. "This was her last work - her masterpiece!"

Together we lifted the veil - the red and the invisible - to reveal the true face of humanity.

I stood back as I watched their go from awe to horror to back again. Carved from wood that my grandfather had given before his own death, I painted the of truth, of humanity. Tattooed as my abulito was tattoo. All shapes, all colors, every surface. There was no escaping.

"Well done, mija. You did me well."

I chuckle, I can't help it. "Praise from the master is very high in deed."

And so we walk off in the lightness, my arm supporting him as we walk, and I can't help but stare at the beautiful face of grandfather.