Migrated Colours

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“Paint me for a hundred Euros,” she commanded.

 

The migrant raised his vision. She was beautiful. Beautiful had always been an overly exploited adjective; yet, she was beautiful. Beautiful like the first rays of the sun peeping behind the Alps onto a peaceful valley- stunningly beautiful.

 

“Indeed madam,” he said, hastily adjusting the canvas. Any painter would have loved to paint her.

 

He mixed the oils on the palette. It was the first time they had breathed in a foreign land. He then swirled them into vortexes and they selflessly surrendered themselves to their master. She sat adjusting her hair and he chose to stare at her while his hands mixed the paints. His job allowed him to do that.

 

A stroke of black on a white background, and he was playing with her hair. It reminded him of his wife. She was beautiful too. Yes, the ‘first rays of sunshine over the Alps’ beautiful. However, she was no more. The sea had taken her away. Black also reminded him of home. Syria was black.

 

Thinking could be dangerous, he realised, and continued staring at her.

 

Her eyes. Oh, she had a spark in them. A spark like the stars bore. A spark like his daughter wore. No, the sea didn’t take the daughter away. The sky did. A flying missile on her school bus took her aloft to the heavens. It was then that he knew, home wasn’t paradise anymore.

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“Throw all your belongings into the sea, or we can’t make it to Greece,” the plastic boat contractor said.

 

Unlike his daughter, his paints refused to leave him – or he refused to leave them. He fought the boat for them. He fought the sea for them. A wave, right then, took his wife with it. He dived searching aimlessly and finally returned to the boat. No one wanted the paints to be thrown anymore. No one wants you to lose all you love – not even the Satan.

 

***

 

The beautiful woman snapped him into reality. She looked hazy. He wiped the tears that had dwelled upon his eyes. She looked beautiful as ever. Her lips. Two gorgeous petals. They looked familiar. Like he’d been staring at them all his childhood from his mother’s lap. They were beautiful. The colors gracefully portrayed what their master ordered.

It was done.

 

This one was not just made with paint. It had his salty emotions mixed with the paints in the palette. His masterpiece stared back at him with the eyes of his daughter. It stared at him with the hair which trifled like his wife’s laughter. It stared back with the lips smiling like his mother’s.

 

He grabbed his wallet. It had ninety Euros. He couldn’t muster enough strength to let it go too.

 

“Sorry for your time madam, but I choose to keep it than sell it. I can offer you ninety Euros,” he begged for just a painting.

 

“This is why we don’t want fucking migrants in our country,” She grabbed the ninety Euros and left in rage.

 

The man had earned something more to offer to the majestic sea. A painting.

 

 


Image Source: pixabay.com


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