Day 35: The Ghost of Frida

The ghost of Frida Kahlo came to visit me in my sleep. She sat on the chair by my bed and painted my portrait in the dark. Her bracelets jangled with every brush stroke, and in the shadows I could see flowers in her hair. Glistening.

I was careful not to move, afraid she would purse those famous eyebrows together, shake her head and leave. I measured my breath, listening carefully as she began to sing a traditional ballad. A song about a sad dove, believed to carry the soul of a broken man, crying at the open window of his lover’s home.

As Frida hummed, invisible guitars accompanied her. The melody left her lips and transformed into a hundred fireflies. Dancing. Louder and louder the music strummed, the room ablaze with colour. I felt delirious, as though I was floating in midair. But I still lay on my bed and Frida still sat on the chair.

She continued to paint, gliding her brush in time with the music. Then she stopped. She glanced furtively, back and forth, from the canvas to me. When she seemed satisfied, she lay down her brush and wiped her hands on her skirt. With a smile and a nod, she rose from her chair. The music faded, the light lowered and she disappeared.

The next morning, I found a canvas by the foot of my bed. On it was a portrait of a girl in a white nightgown laying on a bed of fireflies that spelled out "strength".