The Child and the Lady

(Written by my 17yo 2 weeks before my mom's death)

The Child and the Lady

By Jonathan Tracy

The child and the lady sat at the table. The little boy, barely six, was absolutely refusing to sit still. The paper and pencils lay before him, seemingly forgotten (Although the lady saw right through this supposed loss of memory) while he twisted and turned in his seat.

He pointed at toys and furniture, asking every question that came to mind.

She calmly smiled and answered every inquiry, while gently guiding him back to the picture in process. By the end of there session, the child was in tears and the Lady was reconsidering his future as a world famous artist. Minutes later, he had forgotten her ultimate sin of making him draw and was joyously running circles outside, while she proudly hung his picture of a green cow on her fridge for the world to see.

The boy and the lady sat at the piano. His head was in his hands and her hands were on his back. The ten year old had tried, really he had. But he was convinced she was asking the impossible. It just didn't make sense to him. “It's alright” she said soothingly “You'll get it”. He took a deep sigh, dried his eyes, and stared with fierce determination at the evil piece of sheet music.

The Lady guided his hands to the keys and slowly talked him all the way through. And he did it! The everlasting wisdom of the Lady had brought him victory over that which would bore him! He happily hugged her and gave her a kiss on the check before running outside to boost to his brother. She decided she would tell him later he had played the wrong song.

The young man sat at his desk. Like so many times before, he was finding it nearly impossible to make any headway. His mind was determined to go elsewhere, to once more ride the waves of fancy to the far off shores of his imagination. But art required concentration and he was determined to get it right this time. He had all the drawing prowess of a blind donkey and his music was a soothing as a herd of water buffaloes. But there are more than two kinds of art, and he enjoyed this. Those lessons, from so long ago, had helped him. Taught him. Shaped him. Now, with steady mind and graceful hand, he picked up his pen and set it to writing, letting his mind and heart paint HIS picture. Write HIS music. When he was finished, he turned the page and carefully poured out his heart in as beautiful way he knew how:

To Grandmother.