Follow the white arrows.

It was a Sunday morning, and I woke to the chirping of birds and the faint smell of coffee. A stream of light found its way through the curtains, resting upon my hand. For a moment I didn’t know where I was. My eyes focused on an unfamiliar dresser and bed post, and I called out for Lon, my voice echoing down the hall. No one answered, and it wasn’t until I glanced out the window that I realized I was at Noah’s. My memory reminded me of the previous night; our clothes that were once drenched sat in a pile by the door. Rising, I pulled the comforter around me, the smell of Noah’s cologne still embedded in the cotton. Looking around, I noticed a note taped to the bed frame. Written on the front was my name, his handwriting the same as it was years ago. Inside, there was an explanation as to why he wasn’t home along with directions to follow the white arrows that were placed across the hardwood floor. Dragging the comforter behind me, I quickly followed each one, my feet scurrying across the floor and at the last one I looked up to see where they had led me. In front of me was a blank canvas, held by an easel. My smile widened, and I slowly walked over to the material in front of me; my fingers moving across the black bristles of each paint brush. Pulling over a stool, I sat down remembering the first time I had shown Noah one of my paintings.
It was an activity that seemed to be the only thing that came naturally to me, my troubles and thoughts ceasing to exist as soon as the first streak of color hit the canvas. I had ridden my bike across the road leading to his house, the black tires leaving tracks across the dirt. I balanced the canvas against the bikes handlebars, trying my hardest to keep it from falling. Arriving, I pulled over to the side. Noah was sitting on a chair, an old, worn book in his hands. An older man sat across from him on a porch swing, his eyes closed as he listened to Noah’s gentle voice reciting the poetry. Noah seemed comfortable, the night growing quieter as his voice silenced the “hoo’s” of owls, and the chirping of crickets. It wasn’t long until the older man, whom I assumed was Noah’s father, noticed me. I approached them, the painting hidden behind my back. He greeted me with a strong hand and a warm smile, and I sat down as Noah offered me his chair. Pulling the canvas from behind me I explained my reason for showing up at such a late hour of the night. Noah’s father inspected the painting, and Noah gleamed as he witnessed the approval from his father for the girl he loved.