The Old Portrait

Many years' worth of dust had collected on the paint strokes of the portrait that hung in Melvin Blight's home. Gathering along the creases of the brushstrokes, years of neglect weighed heavy on the relic that hung in the darkened hallway. The face that looked upon the portrait was many years older but was clearly the same one.
“If only I knew then what I know now”, Melvin muttered to himself. He drew a deep breath and blew one short sharp blast of air onto the painting and its elaborate, though faded, frame. Spittle flew forth before the dust danced wildly through the channels of light that emerged from the dim bulbs on the wall above. Melvin spluttered slightly as the dust hit his nose and lips.
Melvin’s eyes traced the lines on the face in front of him. The elegantly coiffed hair. The bright burning eyes. The full cheeks. He let out a faint sigh as he weighed up the comparison to his own face, now weathered and mottled. The once immaculate blond hair, now colourless, limp and wild. The once full cheeks, now gaunt and withered.
A smile crept across his face as the memory of sitting for the painting began to emerge as fresh as the day he lived it. His father had commissioned local artist, Peter Berg, to paint the portrait and had talked over the experienced artist whose own directions were being lost.
A tear came to his eye as he recalled events of that afternoon, one of the last memories that he had of his father. A man that was just as tall, just as gaunt and just as grey as the man that Melvin had become.
“Think and you’ll become it” Melvin’s father had instructed him. “Think of strength, think of power. Yes, yes, that’s it. Shoulders back, chin up”. The young Melvin had shuffled about in his seat, desperately trying to follow the commands.
After the portrait had been completed, Melvin and his father had exchanged cross words and Melvin had stormed out, never to see his father alive again. He thought back over the argument and although he couldn’t remember what it had been about, he could distinctly remember the immediate feeling of regret that had overcome him upon learning of his father’s death.
A few days after his father’s death, Melvin had been visited at the house by the artist, who passed on his condolences before making delivery of the completed portrait. Melvin welcomed the man into his home and explained that he was unsure of hanging the painting.
“No, you must,” Berg had said, “It is what your father would have wanted. After all, I recall the time that he sat for his portrait. He was one of my first. He was as precocious then, as you are now. Hang the painting.”
And he did. Melvin had the painting hung next to that of his father. The two portraits took pride of place in that old hallway. All these years later, they were there as a constant reminder of the men that had lived in the house.
The memories drew to a close and Melvin wiped the tear from his eye. As he did so, the doorbell rang. Melvin made his way to the front door and opened it to find a familiar face. Berg, now himself wearied by the effects of time, stood in the doorway holding on to a wrapped painting. Melvin warmly greeted the old man, welcoming him into his home. He took the heavy artwork from the artist’s hands and helped steady his balance. Melvin unwrapped the painting and the pair hung it next to the portraits.
By the time Berg had left, it had become clear to Melvin what he must do. He took one last look at the portraits and took a step backwards, before turning and walking to the far end of the hallway to where the telephone sat. Melvin picked up the telephone and dialled in a familiar number. After a couple of rings, the line connected. “Hello?”
“Hello, son”