The Beach at Trouville

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Sandra Carlson Khalil

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You had a habit of delighting me, of doing things I thought no other grandmother would do: laughing at your own jokes as food sparked from your mouth, standing barefoot on the couch to recite old-fashioned poetry, and mimicking Bob Ross — happy little trees! — on days you taught me to paint. 

You copied the greats — Van Gogh, Renoir — but none held a candle to your Monet. You gave me The Beach at Trouville for graduation. The original has sand strewn across it, but yours is flecked with dirt, tiny fingerfuls I watched you scoop from your garden and throw against its still-wet surface, laughing, as if this one deviation was proof that your work was nothing compared to Monet’s. 

Before I moved away, you handed me a notebook— my dearest grandchild, send letters — but I never did. By then, I had begun to wonder why you only ever copied, why you needed someone else’s brushstrokes to guide your own. 

Now, Trouville hangs next to my writing desk, above stacks of dog-eared pages of my own greats. Some days, after I’ve inspected other sentences, unsure of my own, I stand and lift your painting from the wall. Trouville is half-cast in vermilion shadow, but if I tilt it towards the light, I can still see remnants of your garden. If I pass my finger over bumps that cling to canvas, I think I can almost understand. I can feel the shape of the ache to create something perfect.

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Sandra Karlson Khalil grew up in Minnesota, but has called the Middle East her home for over a decade. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The Forge, The Stonecoast Review, and SmokeLong Quarterly, where she was a finalist for the SmokeLong Quarterly Award for Flash Fiction 2024.

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