Vanilla Twilight Over White Elephant Hills by Diana Rose

“Life can be understood by looking backward but only lived by moving forward”

The breeze coming off the river Seine had a chill fo impending winter months, she gripped her paint brush mixing autumnal shades that deepened the sky tone. Why couldnt she ever get the sky just right? Why was the melancholy seeping in beyond the clouds with a shade of grey against the vanilla twilight. Did Monet fight with his damn mind in capturing the beauty of late afternoon.. she would like to go back and pick his mind on that. She had come back to Paris to paint this series, part because it was her favorite backdrop, but maybe this time she could exorcise the demons that continued to have hold on her soul.

His eyes were still all she could see …

Vanilla caramel was the color of his eyes.. ten years later the etch a sketch of pain that could never be erased still remained. She walked away rather than see that look on his face, she never filled that void; that box within his soul that left him aimlessly wandering and writing his nights away. THey couldnt escape the permanent scar that that was the tatoo that bound them. She was gone the moment the first tear fell, forever falling ..falling away from the realization . She turned inward escaping his desire to pack for a trip, a trip to Spain where he could write that best selling screenplay that might spend a month on Broadway, or get made into an indie film that people would talk about over capaccino on Sunday mornings when she wanted to just cover her head..

Hills were like white elephants he said..

She rememberd having Hemmingway in her lap the day they met.

The words stopped one day, and all that was left was the knife that she wished to cut out the chord , and leave herself bleeding that valentine of lets just forget. She couldnt forget, that loss had a soul, that loss had the one smile that lit his eyes.

The smile she gave and then took away.

They never talked about it, autumn came and she dissapeared with the leaves falling from the trees, and the grapes to be harvested from the vine. She saw glimpses of evidence that he continued to search the beaten path. Stories of his unbearable lightness in caramel hue appeared in newstands, front covers of those eyes staring back with the same depth of soul.

She couldnt paint him away.. even though an entire room filled to view shades of her remembering the taste of his lips forever on canvas. The museum curator wished to sell those pieces ..and she refused. One day she might.. just cover herself in the shroud of vanilla twilight… and drop without a bungee chord from this observation deck which she stood night after night painting.

She breeze picked up blowing at her canvas, whipping auburn strands into her eyes.

It was then she smelled that scent.. patcholli . She closed her eyes… and the paintbrush fell out of her grasp..

” Still painting white elephants in your clouds?” he said.


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