Next I see a willow ptarmigan, on a taiga trail, pure white and unafraid. My baby hand goes out to touch it, but there are only feathers, white, piled in a heap.
Feathers from the pillow of a Mama for her old man son.
Chirping in the bushes.
Sunlight pouring in my head.
Nests across the world.
A pearl.
Angel smoke strands from a candle.
The gaze of a deer.
Floating and drawing, drawing and floating.
My little birdie.
An anthem to honour the end.
Babci in my heart, in my blood, in my heartwood. Babci, the inhale and exhale of her name. The first thing I’ll do is send her a postcard, mail from me, when I land in Vancouver airport.
Settled in my seat on the plane, the man with thick white hair next to me puts away his newspaper.
Good morning. Is this your first flight?
My first flight alone, I say, and wonder how he can tell. He has a vintage Canadian flag pin on his red corduroy jacket.
Ah, a magic carpet to another place.
I hope not too bumpy.
Ah, if there are bumps, it means there are clouds. We are interlopers in the clouds, so we must permit them to jostle us from time to time.
I love ...the clouds. I like your jacket. The colour.
So my friend will find me at the airport. This red is ponceau. From the red poppy.
Ponceau. I have a new word already.
Are you going to Vancouver to study?
Yes. I’m going to be ...I’m an artist.
Ah, you are a lucky one. Me, at your age, I wished to be in your place. But we had a war. And after, I had a barber shop.
I think of Darryl and imagine him as old as this veteran and I have a spurt of serenity. I’m suddenly certain that my bagpipe spyboy will be safe. In the same instant I feel the urge to draw the whole world. The old man puts away his glasses in a green alligator skin case.
But did you keep drawing? I ask.
After? Ah, only in my head. And now, with my arthritis, it is not possible.
His hands, like mitts, fingers locked in a stiff curve, holding what stories, what treasures, what roots.
Would you mind if I draw you?
Maybe later, when we are in the sky. Then I will be the ideal model ...still, except for my snoring.
As long as there are no bumps!
Ah! That won’t wake me. There will always be bumps, my friend. Like the glorious trees in your path. He’s seen the trees in my sketchbook on my way to a blank page.
We fall quiet. His body settles, heavy, craving rest. I wait for the man’s eyelids to flutter and close.
My pencil on paper climbs the ancient branches on this man’s face as the airplane rises above the cloud bed.
I am away.
Art Lessons Page 15