Some Things Just Don't Matter

Written For: "A Picture Is Worth A 1000 Words Contest"  - Proud to have won the round! "Winner!"  

Thank you Lilli Munster 🧿 ☕ 🎃 for the lovely awardicon, and thank you ruwth for "Note: [Link To Item #1393353] *Heart* *^*Hea..."!

WORD COUNT - All Words: 997

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Some things just don't matter.

As a child, she built sand castles - and didn't bother herself whether her sand castle was the biggest/strongest/most beautiful - or whatever superlative the other children were competing for at that time. "I had fun making it," - and that was all that she cared about.

So when she grew up, she didn't care whether her paintings brought in money or not. "I had fun painting it," - and her Father would click his teeth in exasperation at the phrase which had once made him smile.

It was no wonder, then, that she went walking on the broken bridge. Getting somewhere didn't matter. Stepping in the snow-puddles, taking in the view and playing hop-scotch on the broken slats was what brought her joy. Hours, she'd spend, just walking - and skipping and tip-toeing - from one end of the broken bridge to the other. Of course she had done several paintings of the broken bridge. From all angles, at all times, including with the moon over the mountainside, casting odd shadows on those broken slats.

'Misty Blues' was her Father's personal favourite, out of her broken bridge series. He had watched her paint every stroke of that one, sitting by her side for hours, observing his little girl dab on paint, move back to check that it looked okay, toss her hair, and frown in concentration as she trapped each wisp of cloud delicately on canvas. Once or twice, when she thought her brush had created the perfect stroke, she took a little run, kind of like a young deer, across the unbroken slats closest to her. When the mist had become chilly, he had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and she had pouted. "How can I paint with this thing on, Daddy?" but she had.

Of course he didn't want her to sell 'Misty Blues'.

So when the man made the offer, he said no. Not even for the amount the man was hinting at, though it would pay off a few urgent bills. She heard them arguing, from her bedroom upstairs, but by the time she got downstairs, the man had gone and her Father wouldn't tell her why she had heard raised voices and a door slam.

When she met the man at the grocery store, she didn't know who he was. He recognised her instantly, from the photo he had seen on the mantelpiece - just below where 'Misty Blues' hung, in fact. But to her, he was a complete stranger.

"Help you carry your parcels, Miss?"

"Thanks, I'll take them myself. They're not heavy."

"It's no problem. I'll walk you to your car."

She threw back her head and laughed. "Car? I'm walking home."

"We'll take my car then."

"I don't accept candy from strangers. Or rides in cars, either."

But somehow she accepted this ride. And she accepted the candy bar he held out to her once the groceries were stowed away on the back seat.

The ride home wasn't long, and they talked of superficial things - the weather, the buy-one-get-one free deal at the grocery store, the condition of the road they were driving on. She hadn't the least idea that he was interested in art. His offer to buy her painting, when he came in to help put the groceries away, was a complete, total, absolute surprise.

* * * * * * * * *

"But Daddy, I thought you wanted me to!"

"Not 'Misty Blues'! I meant some of the other ones."

"It doesn't matter. I had fun painting it."

"And I had fun watching it there, above the mantelpiece. I'm going to get it back."

"You can't. It's gone too far to walk or cycle there."

"Too far to ... what did he look like, this fellow who gave you candy and bought the picture?"

* * * * * * * * *

They next saw 'Misty Blues' in the newspaper. The highest bid, it had received, for a painting by a new artist. The annual auction helped give out art scholarships to those who couldn't afford painting classes, and the man had donated her painting to the worthy cause. There was a short write up about how he had happened to stop at her house when his car broke down in a strange town, how he had persuaded her to sell the painting ...

And she saw her name in the newspaper - and the photo of a young girl who would benefit from the amount her painting had earned.

Suddenly, it mattered.

Art Classes. Those were the words that made it matter. Because deep down inside, she had always wanted art classes, and had never been able to afford them. She hadn't even known how badly she wanted them, till she gazed at her painting, her name - and the smiling face of the girl who would attend art classes thanks to 'Misty Blues'.

She looked up at her Father. Words weren't needed, each grabbed a coat and they headed for the bus stop.

* * * * * * * * *

"I had hoped you would come." The man was all smiles as he handed them a mug of coffee each. "I'm glad you did."

"But - but - the scholarship has already been awarded ..." the warm welcome had taken the wind out of her sails, she had expected - what? - a defensive attitude? rudeness? outright dismissal? She wasn't sure what she had expected.

"There are more. The Grand Scholarship hasn't been awarded yet, that's given only if someone really deserving comes along."

"And you think I'm ..."

"Does art matter to you? Really, really matter?"

Again, words weren't needed.

Of course she had to leave home to take the art scholarship. And her Father visited the broken bridge alone each day. When she came home on vacation, they walked there together, and she ran, like a deer, along the unbroken slats.

* * * * * * * * *

When the district declared the broken bridge unsafe, and tore it down - it didn't matter. It had done what it was meant to do.

Sometimes, even a broken bridge does get you somewhere. Somewhere that matters.