Page 47 - Contrast2016

CONTRAST - 45

Meaning had evaded me for some time, now, slipping between my clumsy fingers
to rest just beyond my grasp. The answers were muddled; I had only one question,
one word that wrestled from my tongue year after year.

Why?
I didn't have the space or the time to reflect on what had happened and how
it had affected me in the long term; I had chosen instead to focus primarily on the
task at hand. I had passed my French classes and gotten decent grades in the rest
of my courses, scraping by- the only conception of self that I was hanging onto was
how diligent I was with my schoolwork.
I had tried not to think about my parent's divorce, or the fact that my childhood
home was no longer what it had been. I tried not to think about going home to a
place where I had no boyfriend, no friends, and nothing to return to.
But now, all I had to worry about was waking up on time to walk down to The
Miller's Thumb. I would crawl out of my comfortable bed, wrapped up in hand
crocheted blankets and nestled in between half a dozen pillows, and take a shower.
The big, claw-footed bathtub creaked a little when you turned on the water, and
you had to make sure the shower lining was inside so that it didn't leak out onto
the floor.
Most times, Robin never commented on the fact that I slept late when I didn't
have to go in for the morning shift. She only patted my head and asked if I wanted
breakfast or something to take with me for lunch. Sometimes I think she knew
what I was feeling at the time, a sort of lost hopelessness that only excessive sleep
could hold at bay.

***

A few days later, I was sitting on the front porch, my hands in my lap, just be-
fore I was supposed to go sit at the gallery. There was a light wind blowing through
my hair, the long, slightly damp tresses shifting against my sunburnt skin. I wasn't
good at being alone, unoccupied, without homework to do or something to fill my
time.

Here, there was no one that required my attention, required me to be anything
other than who I was.

I was messy hair in the morning, with eyeliner rubbed all over my cheeks. I was
nail polish that was never smooth, always picked at, and light summer dresses with
bright prints that reminded me of childhood. I had my nose constantly stuck in a
book and there was no one I had to talk to, no one I had to plaster smiles on for. I
didn't have to wear makeup if I didn't want to. There was no one to tell me I looked
bad, no one to ask me if I was okay because I looked so tired- just because I was
missing a little eyeliner and mascara. There was only me and the trees that whistled
in the wind, the water that called to me with white capped waves and a long, wind-
ing dirt road framed with wildflowers that never ended.

My fingers were picking at themselves as I stared out at the water, at the
steady rain falling straight down like I was standing outside of a shower. It was
quiet and smooth against the ground, the pattering repetitive, easing my mind,
letting me rest back against the corner post and be.

And then, there it was. I felt the movement of air through my lungs, the gentle
swell of my chest, the way my shoulders were curving back and allowing the ten-
sion in them to ease somewhat. I glanced down into my lap at myoid composition
notebook, the one with the bent cover and torn pages and smiled at it, letting my
hands ruffle the pages like someone would the hair of a child, and opening to the
next clean page.

***