He would sit on the sidewalk with his sketchpad and sharpened pencils, his fingers moving swiftly and what emerged forced every passerby to stop and admire. Mountains and meadows, horses and deer, with the most beautiful of sunsets, all an incongruous but artistic mixture of lines and shading.
It was late into the night when footsteps dwindled, that he’d pack up his drawing materials, reach for his white cane and quietly slip away into the darkness, returning once again at sunrise, stowing away his cane from prying eyes.
With his illness came blindness and he spent several bitter months bemoaning his loss, his self-pity coming to an end when he started drawing on the walls in his orphanage room as a way of unleashing his anger, and Mrs. Harrison, instead of reprimanding him, recognized his talent, got him his first sketch set and coaxed him into putting pencil to paper.
He finally relented and surprised even himself, picturing all that he had witnessed when he’d taken his sense of sight for granted, and feeling it magically appear on paper. Now, years later, after he’d left the orphanage behind and Mrs. Harrison had passed away, he got satisfaction from exclaims of wonder, and he wanted to leave it at that, he didn’t want people feeling sorry for him, he simply wanted them to enjoy his drawings, as Mrs. Harrison had.