Narrative Poetry

Choices

Inspired by the Art of Renoir

It was the summer of my eighteenth birthday. I had gone to the city to find work, to find love. I had wanted to leave the farm for as long as I can remember. I wanted the excitement of the lights, intelligent conversation, and the romance of a young man’s arms. My mother begged me not to go. She said that the city would be the ruin of me. That good girls stayed home on the farm, met a farm boy, married, and raised lots of children. I could not see myself as a farmer’s wife or a child’s mother. I wanted more. I wanted the theater, the stage, and to be an actress. I wanted to see my name up in lights. To taste fame and fortune. My father was more understanding than my mother. He encouraged me to follow my heart. To take the risk. To see the world. He gave me what few dollars he had saved up and sent me off with his blessing. I walked most of the way, catching a ride with a farmer now and then. With a little luck, I found a place to live and a small job as an usherette in a theater. I knew I would not be there long. Soon someone would discover my acting talent and I would be on my way. I made friends with a few artists, poets, and other creatures of the night. I loved the conversations and the thrill of being in their presence. One of the artists asked if I would model for him. At first, I said no, that I was going to be an actress. But I couldn’t resist being the center of attention. Having someone paint my portrait. When he asked me to take off my clothes, I was embarrassed and tried to wiggle out of it. But he begged and told me that he wanted to share my beauty with the world. I gave in and slowly undressed. I felt uncomfortable, naked before humanity. I had never done anything like that before. Sure, I had let a few farm boys touch my breasts and steal a few kisses. But none of them had ever seen me naked. I was amazed at how quickly he captured my image—my smile, the shape of my body. The young artist asked if he could take me to a summer dance in the park, and of course, I said yes. I loved to dance. I remember still how we danced all evening, even winning a dance contest. He was nimble on his feet as he was with his brushes. He held me close and whispered in my ear. He wrapped his arm around my thin waist and wouldn’t let go. I felt his soft beard brush against my cheek. Even now, all these years later, I can see the sparkle in his big blue eyes, the slight quiver in his lips when he smiled. He was my first lover. The first to turn me into a woman. We moved in together that summer. I became his mistress and his muse. He would paint my body morning, noon, and night. And in between, we would make love. Passionate, sweet love. Warm, intimate love. And then he would take me to the park and dance until the stars came out and the moon changed the color of the landscape. Shortly after I moved in with him, I auditioned for a small part in a play and was cast as an old woman. I had two lines but was as happy as could be. I was on my way. My parents even came into the city to see me perform. I didn’t realize at the time that it would be the only play I would ever have the pleasure of being in. On the night the play closed, I discovered that I was pregnant. The young artist ran like a scared rabbit when I told him. He wanted me to have an abortion, but I refused. He told me that he was in no position to raise a child. That he only had time for his art. And he left me a short time later, long before the child was born. I knew I had no choice but to return to the farm and to my mother and father. I couldn’t take care of myself and a baby. I needed help. I never saw my baby’s father again. I don’t know if he ever became famous or if he fell in love and married the woman of his dreams. I raised my young boy the best I knew how. He will be leaving tomorrow, the day he turns eighteen, to seek his fame and fortune as a writer. It breaks my heart to see him go, but I know that I won’t do anything to hold him back. I have taken up painting portraits. I work from photographs and have a steady income. Sometimes I paint pictures of the theater and imagine how my life would have been different if I had chosen not to have given birth. But deep in my heart, I know that if I had to choose all over again, I would make the same decision. The love of my boy has more than compensated for any life in the theater. Sometimes the choices we make in life turn out for the best. I thank God I was able to be a good mother.

Copyright © 2020 by Harley King

(Choices was inspired by Dance At Bougival, painted by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1883. Oil on canvas. 181.8 cm X 98.1 cm. Boston, Massachusetts, Museum of Fine Arts. Picture Fund.)

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