The Three Boys

The painter on the hill sketched them where they lay.  Three boys, exposed to the elements, stretching on their blanket over freshly mowed grass.  Princely in appearance yet ragged in behavior.  They pointed at planes that glided over the town, preserving some sense of wonder that all boys cherish in their youth, so the painter thought.  He was sure to express this important detail on their faces, which were turned sideways along the breeze, all awash from the light of yellow flowers that glowed among the foreground of that wonderful town below the hill. 

The town was like a brown lake nestled inside a landscape between mountains.  The painter mused that the three brothers would never share a moment so close to heaven, or anything that would ever feel as remotely close to home.  He searched for a way to put this in the painting, but it wouldn't come.  Finally, a surreal impression came upon him, that a cloud vaguely shaped like a hearth might send this message to the heart.  It would be the final touch on an otherwise realist work of art. 

One of them suddenly leaped off his feet and took off through the meadow, followed closely by a smaller one.  The third, who looked to be the most reclusive, diligently folded the blanket, picked up a bag, and started after them.  Perfect timing, thought the painter.  Just enough to gather the essence of these lads.  He wished for them to return sometime, perhaps with some girls, or a dog to play with.  Maybe they at least had some sporting goods, or a kite; that would be nice.   

It's often where one isn't looking that the greatest inspiration comes from.  Places you wouldn't expect.  On this day, it wasn't an accident.  The painter had fully expected to paint a scenic view of this peaceful town, and the view didn't disappoint.  What he hadn't expected were three of the happiest boys he'd ever seen.  He wondered what the depraved outside world would tarnish their youths with.  It happened to everyone eventually, an axiom that made one as miserable as a widow.  He wished their summer would last an eternity for them, not be the fleeting type that great summers often are.  For it is known that time is a terrible thief; it steals itself from the happy moments and indulges in the sorrowful ones.  Those boys, how soon would they know sorrow?  One day, time would miss them so much that it would flood them with its suffocating remembrance.  The only question was when.