dust for life

'Monsieur Gauguin!'
'It's not for sale, Malek', Paul answered impatiently, shaking his head.
'Ah, Monsieur Gauguin, I beg of you'.
'You beg everyday. Why is that so, my friend'?
'Alright. I will tell you, Monsieur,' he murmured, rubbing his right hand over his face as though hoping not to break down. He spoke barely above a whisper. 'The child huddled is mine'.
Paul leaned in and gazed with squinted eyes at his own masterpiece, grasping it with stained finger tips towards the orange setting sun of the dirty open window. He looked at Malek incredulously. The man was wiping both eyes with his palms, hiccuping back tears.
'Here, it is yours,' he said soothingly. Paul swiveled his gaze back and forth, searching his room. 'There. I will wrap it in heavy cloth.'
'Let me give you something for it, Monsieur Gauguin', he offered in a shaken voice, 'a token perhaps, oui?'.
'No no no. Your money is like the dust on the sill to me,' the artist smiled. 'And what of it? Every other work I do will be buried in the earth when I am buried'.
'You are sad, Monsieur Gauguin', and with eager, wide open eyes, 'go and paint some flowers next!'
'I will leave flowers to my friend Vincent.'
'That mad man?'
Paul shrugged his shoulders. 'We all live on the edge of madness', he replied wistfully, turning away to the window. A breeze swept in and dried his own tears hidden in sweat. 'But you are too kind, Malek,' he said, facing him once again and towering over the hunched man. 'Here,' he said in a thunderous voice, 'this is yours now. May your child come to the table and share in the bountiful fruit of Life!'

painting: The Meal (1891)
~by Paul Gauguin