SevenBlueMustangs: Portrait of my friend 1990

Sol Sahhargazon (I knew him as Solly)

Staring at the photos of her horse for hours left her with grief pumping through her veins. Her paint brush had fallen to the ground beneath the canvas some time ago. She had painted portraits of horses before, but this time was so very different. She picked up the brush and raising her paint brush towards the canvas was a seemingly impossible portrait to begin painting that day. Where would she begin? How do you paint death? Is it all dark and gloomy? Or do you paint about the life once loved, enjoyed, cherished? Either way will never convey the loss that one experiences when we loose our very dear friend.

She picked up the brush again and began with gentle strokes like the brushing of his back and neck. Making long graceful whisks, much like pulling the dirt and sand from beneath each hair on his back gave emotion to the feel of his majestic strength. Hesitating while switching brushes for more delicate work around their eyes,

nose and mouth gave her a moment

to step back and look at her work.

Oh how he would toss his head while having his eyes and nose brushed. Her loving kisses on the end of his nose always got him to readjust his mouth and give a lick. Or was it that he hated it so much or that it tickled and made him sneeze creating his own layer of art on the fronts of her shirt. Those were the stains on many of her shirts she wore when spending time with her friend. Some were green like the tall sweet grasses of his pasture. Others were in multiple shades of browns from the earth all around his world. Some were from the highest branch of the Russian olive tree he had rubbed up against straining to strip off the deliciously sweet bark. Sometimes it was the Hawthorn bushes with the three inch thorns that would poke his hind quarter just right for a deserving scratch.

Painting his eye and capturing his sincerity was of all the most difficult. Looking longingly into his liquid brown eyes was easy, but to show that loving look he always gave back could never be duplicated. Yet she gave it her best as she chose carefully the colours within those exquisite pools of love. So many photos had been stored in albums but none could ever compare to those moments she fell hypnotically in love each and every time she met his eyes and his to hers’.

Stepping back from the portrait of her friend, her heart ached as she gazed upon the beautiful horse captured in colours of grandeur. Starting from his crooked stripe down his long nose to his shiny mane that was blacker than a starless night with a tail to match, brought her to a smile. His mane and tail, silky and illustrious, they hung gracefully around his Arabian confirmation. The reddish brown bay with tall black socks on each leg, stood regally like the champion that he once was. Shiny hooves from way too much polish gave it the finishing touch for this classic showman. At last she had captured her friend as he once had lived. He would remain her friend forever on canvas, always there looking lovingly from across the pasture as he often did. Ready to ride, ready to serve and always ready to be loved.