What Happened to Norman Rockwell?

When I was a kid Ma and Pop would take the three of us to my Grandparents house up in New Hampshire. I liked it there. Lots of lakes. Lots of cows too. I digress. My grandmother loved Norman Rockwell. Everywhere in her home you'd find his work. Sometimes on coffee mugs, calendars, cards, and paintings probably purchased on some local store printed on cheap paper. But to her it didn't matter. She'd look at me and smile and always say something like "You see Jane, see that little boy and little girl? See how they're facing out to the sunset together, leaning on each other? That's real love. His hooks empty cause he has no fish, and her flowers are nothing more than weeds, but that doesn't matter. Because it's all in the eyes of the beholder Jane. This is their perfect moment. You'll have your own perfect moments one day too Janie."

Eyes of the beholder.

Eyes.

Maura always said it was scientifically impossible that the eyes could be windows to the soul. It wasn't till after all this that she came to change her mind. Once you've looked into the eyes of a soulless person, you better understand that expression. Till you've had to do that, look into the eyes of a soulless creature, and I say creature because they're not people anymore at that point, once you've had to look them in the eyes it's then and only then you really understand what a soul is. What being human is, good or bad human, still human. These were things no one had seen, known, or understood.

Where the hell was my Norman Rockwell painting now?

Is this it?

I'm sitting here, with Maura, who is leaning against me exhausted and emotionally shook to the core. My arm is wrapped around her back, holding her at her waist as she looks out, surveying the mountain with me. The silly flowers I plucked as a gesture of a promise of things to get better, in her hand, handing loosely at her other side.

Behind us on this dead tree we're now using as a branch sits Rusty, I named him Rusty after a rusty nail, because if you're one of them, you better watch out for him because no shot will save your ass. He's smaller as dogs go, but he's been loyal to us all and loyalty is something hard to come by these days when you're even lucky enough to come by anything.

Maura and I are sitting here, on this dead tree looking out at the setting sun and all I can think about it Norman Rockwell. Isn't that odd? I mean as crazy as these last few weeks have been, I'm recalling an old painting from my Grandmother's house.

"You know," Maura sighs softly looking up slightly to lock eyes with me as I turn my head to give her my full attention. "If the situation were only mildly different right now I'd almost say this was amusing."

"How's that?" I ask using my free hand and tucking hair gently behind her ear. I know she needs the contact as much as I do after everything. The lines between Maura and I had not been crossed…yet, but there was no more black or white, we now swam in the grey of unknown because in truth, I was hers and she was mine however anyone choose to look at it.

"This reminds me of that Norman Rockwell painting," she answers softly and turns her head back out to the setting sun.

And quickly I realize something too. This reminds me of why I love her so much and will let nothing, especially one of them hurt her. Even if it takes my last breath.

TBC…