pictures decorated with silver and orange
frames that glow in the dark. Her desk is cluttered with a tie-dye
lava lamp, a blood red Betty Boop desk light, and a take-home box of
last night's dinner. With a sigh, I pick up the take home box and
throw it out for her. I've beening it ever since she moved in. I
doubt she's even noticed it.
I take out my last
granola bar, debating whether I should eat it now or save it for
breakfast tomorrow. The familiar pang of hunger is sitting in the
bottom of my stomach, but I decide to ignore it. Pain is only a
reminder that I'm still alive, I repeat Grandma's mantra. The
power of these words has lessened somewhat over the years, but the
familiar saying is enough to make me feel like she's almost here.
Bending down, I reach
under my bed to pull out a cardboard box. Setting the box in my lap,
I carefully open the flaps. Gently, I touch a tray of acrylic paint.
It's dirty and well-used. I smile because when I touch the outside,
it reminds me of Grandma and Mom. It reminds me of a time that passed
too quickly.
Setting it aside, I
find a few paintbrushes. They're worn as well. I try my best to keep
it clean, but signs of use can't be hidden. Next there's a tray of
watercolor paints. I place it beside me so I can take out the
sketchpad inside. My stomach growls as I lift the packet of paper
out, reminding me of my choice to forgo eating. Ignoring my body's
plea, I place everything back in the box with careful calm.
Using my pillows to
prop my back up, I take out a pencil. I lift the sketchpad onto my
thighs until it's eye-level. After flipping to an unused page, I
touch the textured paper, feeling the soft roughness like a balm. My
stomach rumbles again. The residual tingle that follows isn't
pleasant. Taking a deep breath to calm my insides, I begin to sketch.
First, I trace small,
curvy lines for a petite form. I keep her faceless, instead focusing
on the lines of her body, letting them flow continuously,
interconnected like threads of fiber. I stretch out each strand of
hair on her head until it becomes entangled in a bed of vines and
grass beneath and around her. The vines and soil are a part of her.
The black grains are engraved beneath her cuticles. I almost smell
it, and that echo of a memory spurs me further, tracing harder. I
don't stop until lines and mounds of grass and vines surround her
small form, reaching out like hands to take her under. The only part
left is her body. Flipping the pencil over, I erase the middle part
of her. I draw a circle in the center. The outline is clear, but I
want it darker until it's the first and last thing I see. When I'm
finally done, I straighten my legs, letting the picture fall with
them. From this short distance, I see the perfect shape of a circle
surrounded by thorny vines. I see braids that become hair, and hair
that attaches to a sinuous body. Further, my eyes roam down and I see
the form of a woman, and the faint arch of her feet as she lies
solemnly on top of a mound. The circle is her stomach. Instead of a
hand of stars reaching down to fill the emptiness inside her, there
is nothing but a black hole.
A void.
I close the book.
* * *
The night is young.
I wish it were done
already.
Sleep is a ghost I feel
but can't touch. No matter how long I lay or how hard I squeeze my
eyes shut, slumber taunts me; so close, and yet not close enough.
Finally I decide to get up and go for a walk. Slipping on my jeans
and hoodie from earlier I leave my room. Sounds of music and laughter
drift from several directions, alerting me to the number of parties
going on tonight.
My tennis shoes barely
make a sound as I pass by. A few groups of people walk toward me, but
I sidle closer to the wall, and their strides don't break. They never
see me. This is such an engrained part of me I wonder if there was
ever a time I was different. I flittered through high school the same
way, a shadow people rarely noticed, but might recall because of the
strange boy who
frames that glow in the dark. Her desk is cluttered with a tie-dye
lava lamp, a blood red Betty Boop desk light, and a take-home box of
last night's dinner. With a sigh, I pick up the take home box and
throw it out for her. I've beening it ever since she moved in. I
doubt she's even noticed it.
I take out my last
granola bar, debating whether I should eat it now or save it for
breakfast tomorrow. The familiar pang of hunger is sitting in the
bottom of my stomach, but I decide to ignore it. Pain is only a
reminder that I'm still alive, I repeat Grandma's mantra. The
power of these words has lessened somewhat over the years, but the
familiar saying is enough to make me feel like she's almost here.
Bending down, I reach
under my bed to pull out a cardboard box. Setting the box in my lap,
I carefully open the flaps. Gently, I touch a tray of acrylic paint.
It's dirty and well-used. I smile because when I touch the outside,
it reminds me of Grandma and Mom. It reminds me of a time that passed
too quickly.
Setting it aside, I
find a few paintbrushes. They're worn as well. I try my best to keep
it clean, but signs of use can't be hidden. Next there's a tray of
watercolor paints. I place it beside me so I can take out the
sketchpad inside. My stomach growls as I lift the packet of paper
out, reminding me of my choice to forgo eating. Ignoring my body's
plea, I place everything back in the box with careful calm.
Using my pillows to
prop my back up, I take out a pencil. I lift the sketchpad onto my
thighs until it's eye-level. After flipping to an unused page, I
touch the textured paper, feeling the soft roughness like a balm. My
stomach rumbles again. The residual tingle that follows isn't
pleasant. Taking a deep breath to calm my insides, I begin to sketch.
First, I trace small,
curvy lines for a petite form. I keep her faceless, instead focusing
on the lines of her body, letting them flow continuously,
interconnected like threads of fiber. I stretch out each strand of
hair on her head until it becomes entangled in a bed of vines and
grass beneath and around her. The vines and soil are a part of her.
The black grains are engraved beneath her cuticles. I almost smell
it, and that echo of a memory spurs me further, tracing harder. I
don't stop until lines and mounds of grass and vines surround her
small form, reaching out like hands to take her under. The only part
left is her body. Flipping the pencil over, I erase the middle part
of her. I draw a circle in the center. The outline is clear, but I
want it darker until it's the first and last thing I see. When I'm
finally done, I straighten my legs, letting the picture fall with
them. From this short distance, I see the perfect shape of a circle
surrounded by thorny vines. I see braids that become hair, and hair
that attaches to a sinuous body. Further, my eyes roam down and I see
the form of a woman, and the faint arch of her feet as she lies
solemnly on top of a mound. The circle is her stomach. Instead of a
hand of stars reaching down to fill the emptiness inside her, there
is nothing but a black hole.
A void.
I close the book.
* * *
The night is young.
I wish it were done
already.
Sleep is a ghost I feel
but can't touch. No matter how long I lay or how hard I squeeze my
eyes shut, slumber taunts me; so close, and yet not close enough.
Finally I decide to get up and go for a walk. Slipping on my jeans
and hoodie from earlier I leave my room. Sounds of music and laughter
drift from several directions, alerting me to the number of parties
going on tonight.
My tennis shoes barely
make a sound as I pass by. A few groups of people walk toward me, but
I sidle closer to the wall, and their strides don't break. They never
see me. This is such an engrained part of me I wonder if there was
ever a time I was different. I flittered through high school the same
way, a shadow people rarely noticed, but might recall because of the
strange boy who
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