Though nothing can bring back the hours
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be…. 

William Wordsworth, from Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

            Catherine contemplated the Van Gogh. There was an urgent, dynamic joy in the two sunflowers in the painting. How that tormented, misunderstood man had managed to express such overwhelming vitality through his paintings – it was a cause for wonder in her deepest soul.  Tears pricked her eyes as she checked the signature on the painting; it said Vincent 87. He had completed it only three years before his death, when he was 34... exactly 100 years ago now. Her tears turned into a smile, as Vincent Van Gogh’s work inevitably drew her towards happiness, no matter how saddened she was that he had died so young. The smile widened as her thoughts turned to her own Vincent, 34 years old when she met him.

Life’s serendipity never ceased to amaze her. Much as Van Gogh’s sunflowers never ceased to amaze her. Much as the Vincent she knew never ceased to amaze her.

No visit to the Met was complete for her without visiting the Van Gogh sunflowers in its collection, even though this late December trip was primarily a gift-buying expedition. The museum’s store held lovely items, and it had served her well in the past as the source of presents for friends and family, but today she had only one gift in mind: something for Vincent’s birthday, a little more than a week away.  Seeing the sunflowers filled her heart… and the serendipity of the date of the sunflower painting gave her the idea for the perfect gift.

***

“Thank you, Mary.” Vincent held up the new sweater to great applause from the group gathered in the dining chamber. Each month’s birthdays were celebrated at one time, saving William from having to bake a succession of cakes every month; now that the January cake had been devoured, the honorees each were receiving a few gifts from close friends and family. Rebecca, whose birthday was later in the month, was “up” next, and as she opened her gift from Olivia, Vincent faded into the background, the sweater over one arm.  Catherine maneuvered so that she was standing by the entranceway just as Vincent made it through the crowd, having kissed Mary on the cheek and accepted congratulations from his Tunnel family.

“It’s a lovely shade of blue,” Catherine commented.

Vincent looked down at the sweater, then up again, tilting his head as he confided, “She must have noticed the patches on my old blue sweater need patches.”

Catherine smiled and threaded her arm through his. Together they slipped out of the dining hall, where the birthday celebration was now winding down. As they ambled toward his chamber, Catherine said, “I have a special gift for you, too. I’ll give it to you in your chamber.”

She could feel the sudden tension in the muscles of his arm as Vincent seemed to hesitate a moment before resuming his progress. Realizing her comment could be interpreted in a way she hadn’t intended, she hurried to add, “It’s something I found at the Met that I thought you’d like.”

Their relationship, still relatively new, was not at the point where gifts of… affection might be exchanged. Catherine herself was unsure as yet just how much intimacy she could expect with the gallant, courtly Vincent, who seemed to confine himself to warm hugs and little else. What she read in his eyes was… much more, but she respected his desire to take things slowly. He was worth the wait.

They arrived at his chamber and Vincent bade her enter first. She made straight for the rectangular package wrapped with paper and tied with a jaunty bow. While they were at the birthday celebration, Kipper had retrieved it from its hiding place for her and delivered it here.  Turning with it, she presented it to Vincent with a shy smile.

He looked down in wonder at the lovely wrapping so rarely seen Below, where re-usable cloth wrappings were the standard. After admiring the paper – bought at the Met and bearing images of Van Gogh’s most famous paintings – he set the gift down on the massive old oak table which served as desk, dining place, homework station for Tunnel children, and chess table when Father wanted a change of scenery. With care, he slid the ribbon off the present and gently released the tape so as not to tear the wrapping. When he had removed the paper, he set it aside, careful not to crease it. Then he allowed himself a good look at the gift: a framed print of Van Gogh’s sunflowers.

His eyes took in the image avidly, and when he looked up at her, there were tears standing in his eyes. She was embarrassed to have caused him such an emotional reaction, but she completely understood it, and was secretly happy that the art affected him in much the same way as it did her.

“It’s so vivid, as if I could reach out and feel the petals,” Vincent murmured. “It’s like the sun has risen here Below.”

“It’s one of my favorites. Even Above, to see it adds light to my day. Van Gogh painted this particular piece when he was 34, and look in the bottom left corner - it’s as if he signed it the year we met.”

Vincent smiled at the twin coincidences of year and age. How Catherine had changed his life in the few brief months they had known each other. On his last birthday – his “Van Gogh” birthday, when he’d turned 34 - he could never have imagined that in just four months his life would change so radically, that he would find someone who would fill him with indescribable joy, as these sunflowers did when he looked at them. But even as he contemplated the beauty before… and beside him, darker thoughts intruded.

Thinking not just of Van Gogh, he remarked, “He was a troubled soul.”

“Yes,” she replied, uncertain why Vincent would focus on the sadder part of the artist’s life, “but he brings such happiness to those who see his art.” Then a sudden insight caused her to look up into the strange and wonderful face of the man standing next to her, a man who struggled with his own demons, much as Van Gogh must have. Still looking at him, she added, “This painting reminds me of the Don McLean song from years ago.”

Vincent smiled uncertainly. Catherine wasn’t sure he was aware of the song, so she softly sang the line:  I could have told you, Vincent – this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

Startled by the words, and sensing through their Bond the words were not meant for the artist alone, Vincent set the framed print down and turned away. Catherine reached for his shoulder, but only laid her hand upon it, not wanting to force him to face her if he felt uneasy. Still, she couldn’t let the moment pass.

“It’s true, you know. You are… so beautiful.”

The shaggy head bent and shook slowly from side to side.

“I want you to look at this picture every day, Vincent. The feelings you get from seeing it – the wild joy of it, the glorious light, the feeling of life bursting upon you – that’s how I feel now, when I’m with you… and Above, when I think of you. Your beauty… within and without… fills me with hope and wonder… and love. Love above all.”

She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard, then smiled sadly at his turned back. Reluctantly, she left his chamber to return to her world, hoping but not certain he believed her. As she walked down the passageway alone, she stood tall, her shoulders thrown back, head high. This time next year, perhaps he would allow her gift to be… more personal, and she could show him just how beautiful he was.

Hearing her footsteps recede, Vincent finally turned back to face the Van Gogh. He lifted it and contemplated it for long minutes, thinking of Catherine’s words. Tears filled his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. Finally tearing his eyes away from the brilliant yellow flowers, he looked around his chamber. It was lit only by candles tonight, and in the semi-darkness his eyes lit upon corner after corner filled with the jumble of items he had salvaged from Above or found Below, the things that had called to him, that filled an empty space in his life. At last he noted, in one corner, a table which seemed less cluttered; in fact, it seemed to cry out for something more. He lifted the framed print and carried it there, moving a few items to create a space at the back. Placing it upon the table, he leaned the print against the rock wall of his chamber, where it sat firmly. He stood back and contemplated the placement, moving forward twice to make minute adjustments until he was satisfied. It would be visible every morning when he woke… a brilliantly colored, joyful reminder of Catherine’s love for him.

Beautiful….