Faded Dreams

Cameron watched his dad mow the lawn on a hot Texas morning. The racket annoyed the neighbors, and his dad would curse when he mowed over a stick, launching shrapnel at speeds that would rival a Mariano Rivera pitch. 

"It really dulls the mower blade when I hit these sticks, plus the debris could really hurt someone," his dad would say. "You need to move them out of my way, Cameron." Cameron—conflating disrespect with independence—would pick up sticks with an eye roll. 

Cameron's reaction reminded his dad, Matthew, of moonlit racoon hunts with his own father, Gable. Gable would park his rusty pickup at the hunting grounds, whistle for his coonhounds, then reverently remove his shotgun from the bed of the truck. Gable would ask Matthew  to wait in the hunter's lobby while he and the dogs chased coons in the woods. Matthew knew better than to show his dissatisfaction or his father might call him "ungrateful" or, more likely, hit him with a switch. 

I never could've gotten away with the things I let Cameron do, he thought.

Matthew finished mowing and couldn't resist a smile as Cameron played in the sprinkler system, a pastime he was a bit too old for in Matthew's opinion. He knew this would be one of the last years his son would look up to him as a father. Cameron was starting to notice girls, go out with his friends, and talk about his future as an astronaut, or writer, or coffee shop owner... 

Dreams. Matthew remembered those as he entered his closet—his old paintings stuffed in a cluttered corner. He forced a chuckle recalling youthful fantasies of "making it big" in the art industry. He dusted off one of his paintings of the wilderness. It's cedars and tall brown grass reminded him of the coon hunts. When he looked closer, he even noticed one of the coonhounds—Royce's floppy ear with the one black spot was unmistakable. His father was missing from the image. Matthew's wife joined him in the closet and asked him about it.

"I'm just reminiscing," he said. She touched his hand.

"I'm glad we're together, with our beautiful children," he told her. 

"Are you feeling sentimental today?" she asked. "Maybe I'll brew you some coffee." She rubbed his back the way he liked and, though it was evening (and he didn't need the caffeine) he accepted the offer. 

On the back porch, glass of chilled coffee in hand, he watched his son shoot arrows at a straw-filled target with the compound-bow he'd bought for him in July. Cameron would probably get bored and embrace some new hobby in September. That was Cameron—always moving from one thing to the next. 

Matthew grabbed a pen and snapped a template of Cameron: bow tense, back straight, eyes on target. Matthew entered his closet and collected canvas, brushes, and pigments, and started painting under dull porchlight. He was rusty but overcome with forgotten passion as color and form obeyed his brush strokes. Sweat fell from his chin, but he didn't mind the heat much now. He felt a smile grow on his face and blew a kiss at his wife, stirring soup too hot for summer—her apron dirty, his smock dirtier. 

It was never about "making it big" in the art industry, he thought. But it was always about this.