The Painting

I have this person who I call my rooftop friend. Every night I would sneak out my bedroom window, climb up the rooftop, and when near midnight came, I would see his shadow climbing up to where I was. First the outline of his head would show, then the neck, the body, before he would finally hook one foot on a rough edge of the brick roof and pull his whole self up.

“Hey.”

I would always greet him.

“Hey.”

He would always say in reply.

Then he would sit. We would just sit there for a long time, not saying anything. We would make small talk, stare at the stars, or if there were none, at the black eternity that lay in front of us. He would point at a jet plane passing by and we would be entranced by the trails it creates on the black canvass. He would then start telling me about his day. How Mr. Grumps wouldn’t pay for the newspapers he ordered because he didn’t deliver it directly to the front porch. How his mom made him baby-sit his little sister and they ended up having a food fight in the kitchen. How he found a twenty dollar bill on his way to the grocery and bought his group of friends an ice cream cone each.

“That’s nice.”

I would always say after every story, and his eyes would always shine and he would tell me more. When he exhausted all stories to tell for the day, his voice would then grow softer and he would tell me about this painting he was working on. You see, my rooftop friend is a painter. A teenage prodigy, I bet, by the way he would describe the meshing of the colours of the universe and how his paintbrush had embodied in it that ultimate power. He would always get compulsive with his painting, always wanting them to personify the magic of life.

This painting he had been working on has been an ongoing project for more than 2 months now. I should know, as that was when our friendship started. That was the fateful day wherein I couldn’t explain this inner urge to climb out my bedroom window, and there, I caught him climbing towards our roof. My house was situated perfectly for the scene he wanted to perpetuate in his canvass, he had said.

Oh, how those beautiful descriptions of the artwork made my bones shiver. That would be the climax of my evening, where every detail would leave me breathless and asking for more. Where every stroke he described seemed like a stroke within my soul. Oh, I would ask him questions! Lots and lots of questions! What did he add to the painting today? Did he put second layers to the sky? Did he give it texture today? When will he give it texture? And he would answer every question with so much enthusiasm yet keeping his voice as soft as possible, as if it was just suppose to be between the two of us. As if, even the stars weren’t allowed this information.

“Tell me more!”

I would say, just when streaks of sunlight from behind the mountains would appear. He would always say “tomorrow!” and would hurriedly leave, saying that he had to be home before daybreak. And I would let him leave, knowing that he’ll be there tomorrow as promised, knowing that he’ll keep on coming until he finished his masterpiece, knowing that I too had to climb under my bed covers before my mom discovers her missing daughter.

Tomorrow would always come and so did the stories of his life and his painting. I would go about my real life with this swelling balloon inside of me that wanted to burst and tell everyone I would meet: “He’s coming tonight again! What do you think has he added now to his painting?” But I didn’t, keeping in mind this certain code of decorum when dealing with unfinished paintings that he had so kindly explained to me on that first night on the roof. My friends had thought I had fallen in love with someone, as no one could take that goofy smile on my face. They we’re partly right. I had fallen in love with a progressing painting, waiting for itself to be just perfect before showing itself to anyone else.

One night though, he didn’t come, my rooftop friend. I waited for him. Past midnight, past daybreak, until I heard my mom scream from my room that her daughter was lost. With a heavy heart, I hurriedly climbed down the rooftop and reassured my mom that I had been outside for a short while, in search of fresh morning air. She chastised me for scaring her, announced that breakfast was served and left me to dress up. I went about my day in a slow, heavy manner. I felt as if the world had turned their back on me. If I had paid really close attention to my actions that day, even I would have said that I was pathetic.

I felt like crying but I couldn’t. The tears wouldn’t come, as if they knew better than to add to my pathetic image. That night, I climbed up the rooftop again, wishing and praying more than ever for him to come, wishing and praying more than ever that last night had simply been an interruption to our nights together on my rooftop. He didn’t come. He never came again.

For a time, I had fallen into a heavy depression that not even the psychiatrists could explain to my mom. I failed most of my classes that year and had to go to summer school in order to remain in the same batch. No one knew about him and his painting except for myself. I had promised him I would keep the code of secrecy until the painting was finished, and although bitterly, I had to admit I never knew if he had finished it or not.

Oftentimes, knowing I had the power to squeal on him and betray his trust made me happy, maliciously happy – the kind of happiness eagle’s have as they set flight in search of a prey. Sometimes though, at the most silent moments of a cold and dreary night, I feel awful to have had such a thought run through my head and I wish I were back on the rooftop listening about his day and finding out more on the progress of the painting. Sometimes, in the most silent moments of a cold and dreary night, I feel as if this would be the night he’ll come back and with that little ray of hope inside which fades every second, I would stand up and look out the window.

I grew up, I guess. For I soon learned how to laugh and smile again. I fell in love, got married, had two kids which were both girls. I became a successful accountant, the most successful one can be after having gone through a trauma such as that, and I’ve travelled the world because of this.

I’ve seen almost all the wonders the world can offer me, every trench and valley worth the hike, every edifice that stands unique among its peers. The hanging gardens of Babylon that now is nothing more than ruins, the Grand Canyon with its mesmerizing design, the Vatican. I’ve seen waterfalls beyond the most beautiful falls anyone could imagine, and sunsets beyond the most beautiful sunset you would read from poems. I’ve seen festivals that can never be matched by media. I’ve seen landscapes that photographs could never give justice too.

But be it from the most prestigious of all to the most ordinary, I have never enjoyed viewing museums. For every time I see one – just one painting, especially if it’s of starry nights and endless skies – my whole world falls apart the way I first fell apart back then. And I become her again – that innocent girl who believed in living through a painting, in loving through a painting. In loving one solitary nameless painting that described her whole universe, her whole existence even until now.