He’s breathless. “Yeah, yeah. Just an issue with my mom this morning.”
“Oh, no, is she all right?” I don’t have to fake my concern.
“Yeah, she’s okay now.”
I don’t even know what to say. MS is a bastard. I relay that exact sentiment to Jae.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I don’t think so. Thanks for waiting.” He unlocks the door. “I might be a little busy this morning, but I can check out what you get done around lunch.”
“I’ll stay out of your way,” I confirm as he heads to the kitchen.
I lay out my tarps and get to work. Today I will focus on painting the cherry blossom tree. I pinch out globs of red, white and yellow paint for the blossoms. I mix red and yellow intoorange into blue into brown. A cherry blossom has the classic meaning of revival, rebirth or coming back to life, and I think, in a way, this mural is the cherry blossom of my life.
It’s the first painting I’ve done since Grant died that I don’t totally hate or scrap in the end. My mind drifts to why I stopped painting in the first place. I had no interest in anything after Grant died. Everything I once adored, suddenly lost all the qualities that made me adore it. The color was sucked out of my life. All I could muster was laying in bed, eating cans of condensed soup and spending money I didn’t have.
It was a long time before I could admit that no matter how badly I didn’t want to live, I had to. Otherwise, what are my options? After much group therapy, I learned that feeling better isn’t free. I had to work for it, every single day. You had to bust your ass harder than anyone you know just to want to get out of bed.
I am getting there. I had built up the courage to leave the apartment. I am making my own home. I am making new friends. I am finally fed up with being a wilted flower. I am ready to bloom and come into my own, much like the cherry buds that were forced to blossom by the warm air of spring. I have weathered a thousand winters, and now it is finally my own personal spring.
Part of a great painting is letting all the emotions you have travel through your body, your hand and into the brush and onto canvas. I let all my sorrows, troubles and calamities travel onto the wall through delicate but unbreakable flower petals. Now, anyone who looks at these blossoms wouldn’t see all the pain and anguish I kept buried in the bottom of my soul in a petite, pink flower and be none the wiser, but I will feel better about getting it out.
When I stopped painting, I kept all my grief buried. I turned it into a fortress around my heart. I forbade myself from doinganything that might bring me any bit of joy. It was my private apocalypse and anyone or anything that dared to break down the barrier would be shot on sight. Now, with each blossom I paint, I surrender every guilty, mourning brick in my wall.
I’m ready. I’m ready. I’m ready.
I’ve missed painting so much.
I am so engulfed in my art I don’t realize how much time has passed until Jae is standing behind me, gentlyahemingto get my attention.
“Hey, sorry, I didn’t see you there,” I step back and allow him to see what I was working on.
“No need to apologize. It looks great. Beautiful, really.” He gives me a shy smile before stepping forward and taking a closer look. “How do you do that?”
“Very carefully.” I answer with a coy laugh. “Do you want me to show you?” I pick my paint brush back up and dab a bit of light pink in the shape of a cross next to the last blossom I painted.
“Start with the base color. Now add your shadows.” I change to a slightly darker pink, painting around the arms of the cross, filling out the petals. “Then add your highlights.” I dab my brush in some white paint, mixing it with the dark pink for a bright pink. “Fill it out so the petals are rounded.”
Jae nods while he watches closely.
“Then, use a fine brush to add detail. And you’re finished. It’s very simple, really.”
“I think I’ll stick to cooking,” He laughs.
“No, really, give it a try,” I hand him my thick, full brush, already filled with light pink. “Paint the cross.” He paints a fat cross. “Now fill it out with shadows.” I take the brush from his hand, our fingertips just barely brushing each other. The faint touch buzzes me.
I dab some dark paint on it. “Just like I did, on the tips of the cross,” I instruct. Jae follows my directions hesitantly. “It’s okay. If you mess up, I’ll just paint over it.” I give him a confident smile. “You can do it.”
Jae paints in the shadows and then the highlights for a shaky cherry blossom.
“See, not bad, right? I’ll leave it in and you can say you helped.” I give Jae a warm congratulations and smile.
“Thanks for showing me. It’s fun, isn’t it? I can see why you do this all day long.”
I can see why I do this all day long too. “Just doing my job.”
Jae flipping through some paperwork behind the bar and I am thoroughly distracted by his presence. I can’t help but turn back every now and then from my painting to catch a glimpse of him filling the ice bucket or checking the taps or straightening bottles.
