I dreamed I was a painting.
I hung on the wall of a public building, in a corridor through which hurried people passed daily. From time to time, an official would emerge from an office, examine me from a distance, and note something in a register.
That morning, three men arrived.
The one in front carried a briefcase under his arm. The others had a ladder, a blanket, and a toolbox. They read the number inscribed on the frame, then compared it with the one in the file.
– This is it, said the official.
He signed at the bottom of the page.
One of the workers climbed the ladder and detached me from the nail. He gripped the frame with both hands and carefully lowered me. I suspected I was going to be moved to a better place.
They took me outside.
Next to the building were the playgrounds of my childhood. I recognized the swing with a shorter chain and the wall I used to jump over when I heard I was being called home. I didn't understand how they had gotten there.
The workers spread the blanket on the ground and laid me face up. The official straightened the frame according to the instructions in the file, then opened the briefcase.
– We can begin.
Inside the box were numbered pieces of glass, each in a velvet-lined compartment. The youngest worker chose a narrow shard, held it up to the light, and tested its edge with his finger.
He began to scrape the paint from my cheek.
It sounded like a rat gnawing in the wall. A strip of color detached and fell next to the frame.
The official examined the uncovered canvas.
– The layer is thicker than declared.
He recorded the deviation in the file.
I tried to explain to him that the thickness of the paint didn't depend on me. I didn't remember ever asking to be painted.
I couldn't make a sound.
The workers continued their work. One scraped, the other collected the fragments into a bag.
The pain advanced with the shard. The edge passed through the color and touched things kept underneath: the cuckoo clock in the living room, scraped knees, the key turned twice in the front door.
The painter had mixed memories into the paint.
When they scraped my mouth, all the words I had uttered detached with it. They fell next to the frame like thin, meaningless peels. They swept them up and put them in the bag.
Then came the turn of the eyes. The sky dimmed for a moment, then I saw it again, from somewhere inside the canvas. My vision had been misplaced.
– It happens often.
I didn't know if he had spoken to me.
Of my image, only the palms joined in prayer remained. This detail put them in difficulty. They leafed through the file and read the same page twice.
– The prayer is not listed in the inventory.
The workers waited.
The official walked a few steps away and spoke on the phone. From his few responses, I understood that the situation had been foreseen in an appendix that had not been sent to them. Then he fell silent and remained with the phone to his ear.
A forehead pressed against the canvas.
The warmth of the skin penetrated through the color.
– Please forgive me.
I wanted to ask what needed to be forgiven. My mouth was already in the bag.
The official lowered his gaze to the file. The workers looked elsewhere.
The forehead detached. A damp mark remained on the canvas. The workers waited until it dried.
The official listened to the instructions, then hung up the phone.
– The prayer is to be removed. We don't have the right to keep it.
The fingers disappeared one by one, and finally the palms. Beneath them, the rough fabric emerged.
Only a single patch of color remained, near the bottom edge. The workers interrupted their work to eat. They sat on the wall from my childhood and talked about a colleague who had been moved to another department. One left his water bottle in the hollow of the frame. The coolness passed through the wood, and I liked it.
After they finished, the official asked them to hurry. The building was scheduled to close at six, and the painting had to be handed over before the janitor left.
From below, I saw the swing moving slowly. The chain creaked at regular intervals.
I wondered what my mother would say when she found out I was gone.
Fr. Ioan Gînscă
Photography by Clicked by Nafi / pexels.com