Da Vinci’s canvas stood tight at attention, waiting for the master’s brush. His paintbrushes laid flat, waiting for the master’s touch. His palette laid clean and empty, waiting for the master to fill it with colors bright and dull. His paint tins sat sealed on the shelf, waiting for the master to come and pick his colors.
And they all waited in the manner of inanimate objects – silent and ever patient. The master would come. He would bustle into the room, bursting with ideas and energy. His hair would be a mess. It was always a mess. It would always be a mess, because that is how he was. He was Da Vinci with the messy hair.
But his eyes would be bright. Bright with a vibrant and youthful energy. An energy he’d always possessed. It had made his parents and teachers almost wild with frustration. But his painting supplies understood that was his nature. Just as it was their nature to be still and silent.
Somewhere in the distance a church bell tolled. It wasn’t the joyful sound of Christmas or of Easter. It wasn’t the sound of rejoicing. Nor was it the panicked jangle of impending disaster, like a fire. No, it was a heavy, even paced sound. It was meant for solemn marching and sad faces and black gowns and heavy black veils.
It was the sound of mourning. It was the bell’s announcement of grief. Someone was gone and would never return.
Da Vinci’s painting supplies heard the bell’s sad tone and waited. Master Da Vinci would come into his studio any time. It was all a matter of time and they would wait for his arrival.