SHORT STORY: My Wife's Urn

“How much?” my guest asked.

“Oh it’s not for sale,” I answered. I almost want to record my words so I don’t need to repeat myself the next time someone asks me how much my painting costs.

“I’d bid to it,” he insisted, raising his glass of red wine for a toast. He wrinkled his eyebrows and walked away. I watched his careful steps as he proceeded to another painting of mine.

“It’s not for bidding… My Love has no price,” I uttered to myself, drinking the last drops of my wine. Why does everyone put a price on things they find beautiful? Is that truly necessary? Can’t people just say, “You painted it well”, and then move on?

People always need proof. Proof that they saw the most beautiful thing. Proof that they own it.

“Beautiful art you have here,” another guest commented. And when I looked at her I saw the glimmer in her eyes as she observed the art on the wall. “My Love,” she read the title, “This one has uniqueness to it. What did you use for grains? I see you sprinkled some on the outline of her body. Sand? Gravel? The quality is so fine. Mind to share your insights?”

She was grilling me with her stare. And among the others present in the exhibit, I felt her curiosity the sincerest. She wasn’t just looking. She’s observing. She wasn’t just admiring, she’s trying to understand.

“Please. You didn’t provide a description for this one. All the others have one,” she cited.

“My Love has no description,” I said.

Why does everyone trying to understand something they find beautiful? Is that truly necessary? Can’t people just say, “You painted it well”, and then move on?

People always need proof. Proof that it’s beautiful. Proof why it’s beautiful.

“Do you mean that with the painting or literally?” she questioned, grabbing a glass of wine from a tray that passed by. She didn’t even glance at the waiter holding the tray.

She’s preparing for a long conversation.

“Both,” I answered quickly.

“Is she your wife? I heard you’re married.” She glanced back at my painting, of a woman lying down on sheets. “I’m sure she’s much beautiful in person.”

“I was married once. And yes, she’s much beautiful in person. Can’t you tell? You’re looking at her.”

My guest looked at me abruptly, with questioning eyes. “Divorced? And I mean, in person.”

“Widowed,” I answered. “And you are looking at her. Whatever remained.”

She was silent then, and like usual, I find myself anticipating her apologies and condolences. But quite surprisingly, she didn’t do either.

She just… smiled.

“I was going to bid for it,” she said, referring to the painting. “But I see it has no price.” She laughed softly. “Some people throw their ashes at sea, some keep it at home. But you… you put it on a painting. Why? So she lives forever?” Her last words carried a tinge of exaggeration.

“People always seek to prove their love.” I reached closer to the painting that hangs on the wall, of my wife, exactly how I pictured her. “And I have proven mine. This painting is the proof of my love. Priceless, and without description. Admired by many, envied by the lot, but can never be bought, can never be touched, can never be explained, nor can be owned by anyone but myself. Thus the title, My Love.”

“Well, you painted it well,” she said with admiration.