The Sketch

The instructions given by the professor was clear as day. While his classmates pondered upon what they would put on the blank pieces of paper before them on their desks, he had already made up his mind. He had three hours to sketch out the person or things in which he cherished and cared about the most, and he knew exactly who or what it was. The professor declined to wanting to see any complicated sketches; just a simple one that bore the deepest of their heart’s desires.

Without a second thought, he picked up his pencil, held it lightly in his firm hand, and imagined her beautiful, ethereal face. He could probably sketch out her image with his eyes closed, but he wanted the sketch to be perfect, flawless as she was in real life. As he touched the lead tip of his pencil onto the paper, his hand began to move, light at first, then firmer as his confidence and passion – both for her as well as the art – surfaced, and he traced her image onto the surface. With every stroke and every outline, he was slowly bringing his sketch to life. He had memorized every curve, every contour, and every shade of her gentle face, her soft hair and her graceful limbs; her very presence had been embedded deep into his soul, and now he was putting her into ink, never to perish with time, everlasting even as his years vanished.

When others paused to consider their art, he poured his heart out onto the paper, one so plain, yet held the torch of his life. His hand moved without glitch, smooth and graceful as she was on the piano. Art came naturally to him; it was his gift. He was not one to brag about his art, but he could almost feel her presence there before him, hear the tinkling of her tune on the piano, hear her humming lightly to the tune like chimes in the whistling wind. They were louder than the buzzing of monotonous scratches echoing off the walls in the hall as dozens of art students sketched. It was as if he was just standing right beside her, watching as her fingers moved gracefully across the string of keys.

As seconds dragged on to minutes, and minutes to hours, he found himself staring at her image with his breath held in his chest and his heart racing in his ribcage. The movement of his strokes slowed as he put in the finishing touches of his sketch; the curve of her long lashes that framed her passionate eyes, the shade of her slender fingers over the black and white keys, the life in her gentle soul.

The professor came behind him and looked at his sketch, intrigued. Awe and amazement dawned in his wise and intelligent eyes, and he nodded in silence. Hidden under a deep brush of graying moustache, the corner of his lips twitched ever so lightly in a cheeky and knowing grin, and with just that, he walked away to check on his other students. When the class was dismissed, a rumbling wave of groans of failure and disappointment washed across the hall. Only he remained silent with satisfaction and pride. For others who had not completed their sketches, he had already kept his within the folds of his beloved sketchbook, one whom nobody had ever had the privilege to look or even take a peek in to – not even her. Maybe one day he would show her, but for now, they remained one his most cherished treasures and for his eyes only.