The Old Soldier

This was written for:

FORUM

The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPs! #333655 by Sophy

PROMPT: You and a friend are at an art gallery slowly walking around studing each painting.
You are completely drawn to one and it "speaks" to you.
What does it say?
Is it the artist him/herself talking to you or the colors in the painting?
Have fun! Story or poem

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Old Soldier

I was strolling with Katie at the art museum. Katie was the connoisseur. I was just her buddy, hanging on to her opinions and comments on each painting. But then we came to the Rembrandt section, and my eyes turned into globes of surprise. I woke as if from a long sleep. Familiarity washed over me. I knew these people. They were my kin. I circulated slowly, leaving Katie's side, wanting to experience on my own, without her art expert's voice.

I stopped in front of one painting -- The Old Soldier. He felt familiar, like an uncle or a distant relative I'd once known.

I dropped down on the red leather seat. A disabled elder gent was sitting on the other end. He smiled at me. I smiled back. I tugged at the scarf over my head, fixing it so it wouldn't show my thinning hair.

My eyes returned to the soldier. Once again, familiarity hit me with strange feelings of acquaintance or kinship. How could that be? The man looked like no one in my family. In my father's line, the men were balding, pudgy, and sweet-natured. My mother's relatives were tall and stringy-looking, almost frail.

The soldier's eyes glared at me. They spoke of conflict, of hard living, of alcohol, perhaps.

"This your first time at the museum?" the elderly man sitting near me asked. His cane was tapping quietly against the hardwood floor. I felt the vibration more than heard the noise.

"Yes. I'm with a friend. She's the art major. I'm just here to keep her company."

"You don't need anyone to keep you company at an art gallery. The paintings do that. Old souls mingle with new ones. They tell us things. We only have to sit and listen."

I glanced over at the old guy. He sounded nuts. I wondered if I should move away. I thought about it, but the Old Soldier still held me.

"There's a lot of old paintings here, all right," I said, trying to lighten the tone.

"Yes. Age make them luminous. They can reach out better that way. Take the one right there," he said, pointing his cane at the Old Soldier.

"Sir, please put down your stick," a museum guard reminded the old man.

My seatmate laughed. "Don't worry. I wasn't going to toss my cane. I couldn't walk if I did."

"Thank you, sir," said the guard, relaxing a little, but still keeping his eyes on the crazy, old man.

I glanced at my seatmate again and met his smiling eyes. They were looking into me as if we were old friends.

"The Soldier is the one talking to you. Isn't he?" the man wheezed.

I nodded, not quite understanding why I did. Katie had wandered off. She wasn't even in the same room. Maybe I should go join her, but the soldier commanded. Stay, he said. Stay and listen.

"I feel like I know the soldier," I blurted out. "But that's not possible."

"Yes. I know what you mean. For me, it's Titan. See the young boy over there? That was Rembrandt's son, they say, but he was my son. I'd know those eyes anywhere. Those are my son's eyes."

"Was? Your son is dead?"

"Yes. One day he climbed the wrong mountain. Now I have only pictures of him. And Titan."

"I'm sorry," I responded, trying to ignore the tears on the old man's cheeks. "That's really sad. And your wife? Where is she?"

"She joined my Timmy a year ago. I'm alone now. I come here everyday to see Titan. He brings back the happy times. I can see them in his eyes. He was full of love, you know. He gives that to me. And he tells me things."

I fidgeted, looking down the hall, wondering how far away Katie had gone. Then I took another peek at the Old Soldier. He was still ordering me to do something. What did he want? What was he telling me?

"I've got to go," I said, standing up. "I can't see my friend from here. She might be ready to leave the Rembrandt section. It was nice chatting with you, though. Thank you for telling me about Titan. It is a wonderful picture."

"But the Soldier hasn't released you yet, has he?" the elderly man laughed.

I gasped as I realized he was right. "How did you know?" I asked, gripping the bench with sudden dismay.

The old man laughed. "Titan told me. He knew the soldier. That one could cuss with the best of them. He could drink a bathtub of cheap wine, too. He did that a lot in his older days. He was in pain, you know. Everything ached. But you can see he grew wise with the pain. It made him stronger."

I nodded. "Yes, I do see that in his eyes. But what does he want with me?"

"He wants to share his life. He wants you to understand something."

I looked away from the soldier's eyes. This was madness. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Understand what?"

"That life goes on no matter the obstacle. Life continues through all the joy and through the pain."

Why was the old guy saying this to me? He couldn't possibly know about my cancer. It didn't show. I was visibly healthy, still full of fight.

"Ask the Old Soldier, my dear. He'll tell you how one endures."

I studied the painting. The golden hues of the soldier's helmet almost looked like they shimmered with wisdom. The light-strewn puff of feathers atop one side lent the man elegance. But it was his eyes that captured me, eyes that saw into me.

"Are you still here?" Katie asked, interrupting my thoughts to come stand beside me. "Why are you staying at one picture for so long?"

"Because this one talks to her," my elderly friend said.

Katie shook her head and moved off, but I remained where I was, listening and learning from an Old Soldier and the elderly gentleman at the end of the bench.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~