The Witnesses

By Esteban

They weren’t born from sketches or plans.

They emerged—one by one—from the smears, the streaks, the arguments between brush and canvas. Four women. Painted bold. Painted loud. Their eyes heavy with history, their mouths tight with memory.

The one on the far left always struck me as a kind of matriarch—not soft, but hard like weathered wood. A woman who believed punishment could chase away shame. She reminded me of someone I once knew… someone who thought control could replace compassion. A mother whose love was laced with threats. The kind of woman who thought fear was a holy weapon.

She watched someone she loved wrestle with identity in a world too small for honesty. And rather than change the world, she tried to change him. I once tried to help them both. I carry the echoes of that attempt in my bones. And maybe that’s why she showed up in paint—watching. Judging. Holding something she thought was justice.

The one on the far right? I painted her yellow-haired and loud—a woman who always seemed to find God just in time to justify herself. I've met a few like her. Generous with opinions. Stingy with grace.

The other two arrived quieter, more mysterious. Maybe they’re ghosts. Maybe they’re pieces of people I’ve known, or parts of myself I’ve tried not to become. They carry less certainty. More ache.

Together, they form a strange jury. Not of law, but of legacy.

Because whether we mean to or not, we all witness each other. We watch. We speak. We stay silent. We carry judgments—or we carry mercy. And sometimes, when the light hits just right, the paint remembers what we tried to forget.

Perhaps one day, they—and we—can drop the rocks and go home, instead of always throwing them.