It was a regular Saturday evening, 8 o'clock, at this enchanting spot I usually come to watch the sun set behind the horizon. A year ago, I decided to make this a weekly ritual, to sit on the yellowed grass, hidden by the trees, and watch the orange glow slowly disappear. The place is as familiar to me as my own home; I know the sounds the leaves make when I shuffle past the trees to claim my choice seating; I know the chilled air that breathes in my face while I wait; I know that sometimes I can hear the sun as it hits the horizon.
This regular Saturday evening, 8 o'clock, I wasn't as sure of what I knew.
An elderly man, smiling, walked into my safe haven of sunset-watching and set up an easel not too far from where I sat. He made another trip back to his car and returned with two wooden chairs, then another, returning with a black canvas bag, which he placed down gently alongside the easel.
I continued watching this man, intrigued. Why the two chairs? We were the only ones here and he made no gesture of acknowledgement towards my presence.
He opened his black bag, torn at the handles, and pulled out a palette and an assortment of paint tubes-- all shades of blue. He placed a cream-white canvas on the ledge of his easel and began to paint with his eyes closed.
An hour passed.
He had still not opened his eyes, just kept painting.
I was completely in awe of this man.
I knew I wanted to talk to him, to learn of the mysteries that were his two chairs, his shades of blue, him. But as always, all I could do was watch out of the corner of my eye, pretend not to notice while the details of the situation screamed at me from the easel, the palette, the chairs, the wrinkles around the man's worn eyes and warm smile.
He brought two chairs, but was alone. He set up an easel to paint, but had not opened his eyes.
I approached this man curiously and cautiously. I wasn't afraid of harm, but I was wary of encountering something I could not understand, could not grasp. Until now, I had resided in the familiar; I had surrounded myself with what I knew, understood. I didn't understand this man.
And although I made barely a sound as I stepped carefully towards him, he opened his eyes and we stood, frozen in the moment but speeding ahead-- me, with my barricade of security broken down, and him, with his kind eyes and peaceful smile. We stood in that perpetuating moment, not judging, just questioning.
He spoke first.
"May I help you with anything?"
I stood for a moment, unable to voice the words that had been multiplying in my head.
Finally I said, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering how you're painting with your eyes closed."
"Why, darling. I'm not the one painting, my wife is. You see, she's sitting right there. I'm just holding the brush for her."
I stare at where he motions, but all I see is the empty wooden chair.
He sees my confused expression and adds, "Blue was her favorite color."
It all made sense. The two chairs, the smiling, worn man, the blind painting. It made sense and I knew; knew that no matter how alone we feel or how hard we search for isolation, we never are. My sunset-watching spot was not my own anymore; no, now it was shared by infinity: the man, his wife, myself, and the countless people who might choose to witness it with us. The man is never alone either; his wife is there with him, sitting, watching him paint the sunset in hues of blue. For his closed pair of eyes, always, there are her open ones.
I asked to see the man's painting. He nodded, turning the easel around to face me.
It was the most magnificent sight I have seen in my life.
He saw my conspicuous admiration and asked if I would like to keep it. I quickly shook my head no. At last I managed to say, "I could never take something so wonderful from you; your wife painted this for you. You need to keep this."
He smiled, and I thanked him for explaining his mysteries. As I left, I noticed him pull another canvas out of his bag and start painting again, eyes closed, shades of blue.
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