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Story of a painting

Haiqa Asim

The miniature painting was just like one of our members of family. The little painting was made by my grandfather although his job had nothing to do with paints but just for sake of love he had with Jeniffer, my grandmother, he made that painting. Grandpy, is the name I like to call him with, made this piece of art when he was in his yearly twenties- when he proposed my grandmother.

My grandmother told me that when the event of proposal took place, grandpy had tousled dark brown hair; his eyes were a mesmerizing deep clue ocean and his face was strong and defined, He was well proportioned. In addition to his personality, he was affable plus likeable. The last time I saw my grandpy he had the same charm on his face.  When my mom told me about his death his optimistic vibe was the only thing I could felt.

Grandmother also did not lack the fashion of old English ladies. She was not just beautiful from outside but her beauty used to lie with in her soul. She was excellent at understanding her responsibilities towards her family. Grandpy’s death damaged her to this extent that she did not dressed herself well till now, for the past five year. Nothing could bring smile on her face except for that painting.

That small painting had all the memories of grandpy fastened with grandmother. It was the only artifact abandoned by grandpy because he was someone who had to travel like a nomadic. As a result his belongings were never specifies neither did grandmother get enough time to demonstrate her love to him, the way she wanted.

Follow by my grandpy. Dad was also involved in foreign affairs of Ministry of France. So he was found less at home. I always made fun of his job because I used to perceive that he contributed in relationship affairs being held in foreign countries. However, now I am very well aware of what he does. This local tradition of getting into foreign ministry would not be continued by me thus I am elite lazy as compared to my father who is exceedingly mobile.

“Till when will you pack this?” asked dad. I am hearing this sentence like for the hundred time in my life. Mom was as usual busy packing all the household stuff because it was again time to get transfer in another country. I loaded my items in the car and we made our way to the airport. Grandmother was along us and habitually appears to be done with her existence without grandpy.

“Screech” of the plane’s breaks as it landed on the San Francisco airport made me woke up from my intense sleep. We reached our up to date house to which I am utterly convinced that we will not stay in it permanently, hardly a month or so.

Everything was placed where it should have been. But our major slice of furniture, which was the part of grandmother’s heart, the painting as not at its site. Everyone got strung thus hustle and bustle started. We looked everywhere we could have.

Since the day we have landed here grandmother was admitted to hospital due to her respiratory disorder. It was heavy for us to tell her about her about the loss of the painting. We were avoiding any sort of bad news to reach her as doctors confirmed that she is in her last few days of life.

On the same date when the grandpy proposed grandmother, we went to the hospital to see her and we saw that the painting was in grandmother’s lap. She was holding it tightly. The moment we saw this we took a deep breath but the next minute grandmother’s heart beat dropped and painting got freed from her hands. That frame of 50-52cm had taught me the value of love such closely. Dad took the painting and placed it in the lounge while on the other hand our beloved grandmother was getting laid to rest.

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