The Unseen Flower

He was a large black man sitting on the train. He was dressed in work clothes that looked like he was ready to change tires on cars all day long.

At first, I glanced at him like I do most fellow passengers. Nothing special; just commuters like me.

But he was a pendulum in motion. He had an artist's sketchbook in his workman's hand. Next to him, was a satchel bulging at every thread of every seam.

He would reach into the satchel, pull out a bundle of felt tipped markers wrapped in a rubber band. From this bundle, by intuition only, he would extract a marker, take the cap off and place it on the marker's opposite end. Then he would touch the sketchbook page a time or two, swap the cap to the other end, place the marker back into the bundle, and stuff the bundle back into the satchel.

And again without hesitation, out would come another bundle of markers, and the process repeated again and again.

What could he be working on? Certainly only scribbles, I thought.

Then I saw. Amazing art. Art of an idealized young white woman, whose long blond hair provided a border for her perfectly youthful body. Art that a gifted fourteen year old girl would render. Art that was art; not gaudy; not sexual; not lustful. Art of innocence.

As the train pulled into his station, he closed the sketchbook, zipped the satchel and left.

Why did he draw and paint with those markers? Who will see his work?

Perhaps he is like a flower that grows unseen in the forest.

But I saw.