Painting of an old man

In the art gallery somewhere hangs a painting depicting an old man strolling along the water's edge smoking a pipe. There is an overall quality of pensiveness to it, even in the stillness of that painting. When one looks at it one can almost envision the whiff of smoke that follows with each thoughtful puff. The facial features are unclear, and in truth, there is an overall nebulous quality to the scenery. The details are somewhat blurred, ensconced in artistic haze... but somehow through the sublime, all details become more acute, more salient. 

It is not a spectacular painting by any standards, but it is one that never fails to captivate me each time I visit. It calls out to me, there is an affinity which draws me to it. Perhaps it is the old fogey, he seems to have an air about him that I find quite fascinating. Something disturbingly familiar.

A dignified anchorite I presume, there seems to be purpose in his gait. I can see him now, striding carefully, and economically along the beach as if each step is the product of prudence and years of fine tuning exercises. The sounds of waves crashing upon the sands, and the symphony of gulls resounding in his ears, he strolls on. He seems to radiate an air of erudition, but at the same time, it reeks of loneliness. How often I sat before this painting and find myself wondering why he is out there alone along the beach. Where are his grand children? Where is his spouse? Where is that faithful furry companion that I so expected to see running about? They are absent, and it is that very absence of life which makes the portrait even more haunting. 

What if I too am destined to be him, alone and forgotten on that beach front? What if I remember everything, but the only memory of me is a painting- a painting of me strolling out one day alone on the beach remembering everything. And some day, years from now, another young fellow would stumble upon that painting, and speculate as I have about this one.

Alas...I don't think I would enjoy the prospect too much. I can not deny I shall grow old and become a fogey... but could I have something more than a bit of dignity that captivates the artist's eyes? Maybe a sense of accomplishment evident by the foot steps of laughing grandchildren in the sands before me, a glowing house with smoke coming from the chimney in the background radiating with hopes of returning to a loving spouse baking pies. I would gladly throw away that pipe if it means my heart should be so set ablaze with love and companionship.

But for now, I fear I relate more than I should to that old man with a pipe. The facial features may be blurred, but I see myself clearly walking in those footsteps, the bitter winds upon my chest... This is no stroll but in fact a lonely march, a march until the alloted time is up. Turn back old man.