Sunset

 

The old man sat on his wooden stool staring out at the ocean, his canvas still blank, his brushes still clean.  He watched as the long line of pelicans quietly grazed the tips of the waves.  How wonderful flight must be, he thought, as the sun brought a little warmth to his old body.

There was a good-sized sailboat making its way across the horizon, but the old man simply closed his eyes.  He wouldn’t be painting today.  He set his brush along the edge of the easel and tried hard to think of something other than Brandy.  For so many years his trusty pal would stay curled up next to his wooden stool as the old man painted.

Strangers would walk up to glance at his canvas, but almost always bend over to pat Brandy, who never growled but would wag a friendly greeting.  Both the old man and Brandy could tell the locals from the smell of sunscreen.  The tourists seemed always in a hurry to get to their next stop, and they smelled of cheap cologne or aftershave, carrying packs of things they didn’t need.

The breeze off the ocean caused the old man to open his eyes, his blank canvas looking back at him, the hardness of the stool reminding him he had once again forgotten his cushion.  “Let’s go home Brandy.” He said to no one in particular.