Narrative# 1 - John La Farge's Portrait of the Painter

The sweet smell of spring tulips filled my nose instantly. Unconsciously, it brings me back to the fearsome day of my childhood that will haunt my dreams forever. Walking on this trail, in this familiar place, I can remember the day perfectly. I can see the bright sun and the clear, blue sky of the morning. I can smell every smell and hear every sound. I can even taste the crisp air that surrounded me before it happened. I can see Russell and Michael running through the woods as I chased them. The memory is so vivid in my mind that it seems like it was only yesterday. I tagged Michael first, so he was it.

“One…two… three… four… five… ready or not, here I come!” He shouted.I had the best hiding place. I hid in the tree closest to the trail because Michael never expected me to be so close to where he always counted, by the rock. I could see Russell hiding right behind the tiny bush and I could tell that his foot was visible from Michael’s view. He started running, full speed towards Russell when it happened. It all happened so fast that it was hard to believe it was real. Seeing poor Michael lying there, helpless. He did not even see it coming; no one did.

Back in May of 1940, I was a ten-year-old French boy who did not know much about war. I knew countries went to war but I never thought it would affect me directly. I think most people hear about tragic events happening, like what happened to France on May 10, 1940, without ever thinking that it would happen to them.

My lungs filled with hot, thick smoke. The burning sensation pierced through my chest, giving me the feeling of instant suffocation. I did not understand why it was happening or where it was coming from. All I knew was that I needed to run. I still remember my heart racing in my chest, as fast as the wings of a hummingbird. I can still sense the ringing in my ears from the loud, deafening explosion. I jumped from the tree and ran as fast as my legs would let me. My lungs were ripping through my chest trying to obtain any bit of oxygen that was possible. I could hear them coming, yelling in a language I could not comprehend. Suddenly, there was a whole group of them in the field past the trees where we had been playing. I did not know where Russell was. When I jumped down, he was not behind the bush anymore; I thought that maybe he ran too.

“Alexandre!” I could hear my mother screaming my name. There were aircrafts shooting through the sky like comets; I kept running. Finally, I could see my house through the last few trees. Mother was outside, looking everywhere, hoping that her only son was not at the root of the horrifying booming coming from the woods. There was still no sign of Russell. When I reached my mother, she was frantic. Father was gathering things into a small case. Where was Russell? Would anyone ever find Michael? Those questions still loiter in my mind. We left without ever looking back.

Now, I have returned for the first time since then. I can smell every smell, and hear every sound. Even the taste of the fresh air lingers on my tongue. I can still see Michael and Russell running as I chased them. However, I see something now that is new to me. A large stone carved and placed in his spot, by the rock.