[Content Disclaimer: References to death and substance abuse, and other forms of abuse.
All characters are completely fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.]
It is always the cold winter night, when frost overtakes the town and snow buries our favorite memories. It is when the clouds dominate the sky and so our universe seems to disappear. Or is it that my family only fights on Christmas then cries and pleads with one another as they leave the gathering.
No, I think it is when the sun rises but no light is strong enough to break through; that is how I know that the winter has been cursed.
I stopped going to the family gatherings, in fact I have not seen any of my family in three years. Practically the moment I turned eighteen I was out the door and riding a one-way ticket to anywhere I could manage.
That ended up being a long drive to Albuquerque and a four-hour flight from there to New York City. Only to discover that big cities are definitely not my cup of tea.
I sold some of my watercolor paintings to buy a taxi to Boston. I kept traveling around like that for the first couple of years. I would stay in one place for two weeks or at times a month. My watercolor paintings sold relatively well wherever I went. In some cities I even set up an easel in the street and sold people's portraits!
I was in Chicago painting the snowy landscapes of the city when I got the call.
"Maggie, where are you? Your mother has been worried sick! I only found you cause of those silly photos on the Photogram! You can't go running off without a word in the middle of the night!" My aunt berates me on and on. I threatened to hang up; there is no room in my life for my family's vindictive energy.
I was attempting to say bye and leave it at that, but then she shook my world.
"She's in the hospital, Maggie. The doctors are doing what they can but she ain't looking too good." Her health has been deteriorating for the past few years. She says it is the stress of having a failure for a daughter that causes it, even though everyone knows it is the alcohol that will do her in one day. It sounds to me that the day has come.
"Maggie? Are you there, don't you have anything to say?"
What do you say when the person who beat you, dehumanized and hated you is on their deathbed? What are you supposed to feel when you get to see someone receive their karma for the evil that they did to you? If you feel relieved, does that make you a bad person? If you feel pain, does that mean you are still under their spell? Or maybe you feel nothing, does that free you from the responsibility of responding or even acknowledging them at all?
All of these feelings rush through me with the wind; the easel I had been painting on rocks back and forth on the uneven stone walkway. Someone picks up a canvas from my little ground display then pushes some money into my hand as they walk off with it.
"Maggie? Are you there?" I don't know. The town square around me is suddenly feels tight and untamed.
Another great gust of wind howls through, some canvas I have on display fall over. A painting of Lady Liberty topples over into the snow; I can almost smell the embers of her fire turning to smoke. Behind her was an old painting of a statute in the Taos plaza. I painted it while I was feeling homesick in Ohio last summer. I let my aunt know that I will get a flight home and end the call before she could say another word.
No matter where I run to, the winter always haunts me.
I pack up my easel and tools, make one last sell as someone notices, then hail a taxi. There are no tickets available to fly to Albuquerque so I wait in the gate lounge only half hoping someone does not show up so I can get their seat. The woman coordinating passengers comes out to announce two empty seats for sale at a reduced price. I hurry over and secure my ticket and rush on board the plane. My thumb traces the colorful heart on the corner of the ticket in anticipation.
"Good evening ladies and gents, this is your captain Herbert speaking!" The captain runs through safety precautions, sprinkling in his own friendly jabs. "...we will be landing in Albuquerque, New Mexico at about nine-thirty PM. Please enjoy your flight and remember, no skydiving without me!" There are a few chuckles, most people are already asleep or deep into conversations.
As we take off, I notice a small boy, staring at me from the neighboring aisle. The rhinoceros doll he clutches seems to be staring too.
When we are permitted to use our devices, I pop in my wired earbuds and open my Photogram. I post a goofy photo of me on the plane, captioned with Where do you think I'll end up this time?! It does not take long for people to see it, comments and likes begin rolling in instantly. For a street painter I have made quite a name for myself in so few years. Maybe I could really do something with my talent, going against my mom's seething beliefs.
The little boy from before interrupts my thoughts, he stands in front of me with his doll hugged tight against his chest.
"Lady?" I attempt to smile, whose kid is this anyway? "I don't yike planes, Stan doesn't yike 'em either." He hugs the stuffed animal tighter.
"Do you and Stan want to play games on my phone for a while?" His eyes light up and he nods eagerly. I set him up with some puzzle games I have on my phone, and he returned to his seat humming happily. I struggle not to laugh when he tries to use the doll's leg on the screen.
The rest of the flight was undisturbed, the boy gave me the phone back, I shook Stan's plush hoof and waved goodbye as he returned to his grandma.
I begin feeling tight and far away from everything as I walk to the curb. I do not truly see the sky-blue bus as I step into it, nor do I notice the people around me as we bob down the highway. It was not until we reached the bus stop in front of the courthouse that the world came back to me.
Now that I am standing in the frozen wasteland which once I called home, I wonder how I have gone so far only to end up back here.
I begin my march through memory lane. It really is not a long walk to the house on my old street, but it felt like hours. Every possible scenario runs through my head, my mixed emotions war with each other. The front door of my childhood home flies opens, my tear-soaked aunt bursting out the door.
She embraces me for the first time since I was a young child. A sweet cherry aroma emanates from her flawless cardigan. She never even held my hand to cross a road or wiped my nose when I was little. All because she had blamed me for my dad leaving which sent my mom into a depression and alcoholism.
I suppose desperation helps us find forgiveness when we otherwise would not. Mom would probably come up with some elaborate argument to explain it her own way.
When we got to the hospital the doctor greeted us solemnly. I must have looked more shaken up than I felt because my aunt took me by the arm and softly sat me in a chair. As he explains their efforts and pushes us to understand the severity of her condition, I only stare at the nameplate on his shiny desk. Dr. Eric R. Foreman. The man who failed my mother.
I cannot say it was heartbreaking when I saw her in the hospital bed. It was more like it just wasn't happening. Even now at her funeral I can't pinpoint the exact feeling. It is the kind of detachment that grows a very particular sort of pain deep inside. Maybe it just has not hit me yet but somehow, I know I will keep moving on as I always have.
How do you learn to judge yourself without tearing apart your soul? How do I make moving on okay, shed my guilt and live my life despite her absence? I tell myself she was never present in the first place. I know better though, because even after I left, I kept her in the foreground of my mind. I know that I was the one who ultimately set the fire to our bridge. Is it regret? I don't think I do. It is necessary for my survival to move on… though I will hold my inevitable love for her in my heart forever. If there is any regret to be had it is only that I don't know if she ever would have come to love me the same.
I stuff my journal into my side bag and stare up into the great clear sky. A bright young couple walks up requesting a portrait. I replace my sketch of the Space Needle with an empty canvas and greet them.
Just one painting at a time will take me on my journey to wherever I am meant to be. I will walk this path alone until someone comes to walk it with me. If ever a day comes, I think my mom would smile down to me.