Sunday, June 15, 2014

Back In the Day


                             “Mommy?”

                             Mother is just a word to define me. I am more than that but that does not stop two small little arms from tugging onto my skirt and repeating the words as I attempt to clean the home.

                             “Mommy?”

                             There is no way to ignore them, they are a piece of me, my love, my heart and soul poured into giant brown eyes. They are a part of my life, and my life, although it may be dull, revolves around them.

                             “Mommy?”

                             I put down the broom and turn around, my skirt swooshing and gently touching their face. Eventually the fabric disappears to unveil the star of my show. My small little boy clutching the dress with hands balled and his eyes shimmering. There was a glowing personality about him and it was something impossible to ignore, but why would I go to ignore my own child?

                             “Play?”

                             “Anthony you know Mother is busy cleaning.”

                             Anthony pouts and drops his hands from the skirt letting it fall down softly to end the show, but his dispute will not end here. He wobbles over in front of me on his barely trained feet towards the broom. Tiny hands attempt to grasp the broom but it is too much, and the broom falls over with a clunk. Shock fills Anthony’s face before turning towards me and pointing at the fallen broom. Yes, the mighty broom has fallen.

                             “Look.”

                             “Did you do that?”

                             “Play”

                             “Anthony I love you dearly but Mother needs to clean. Go back to your nap.”

                             He never goes back to his nap. Anthony, with little feet, follow me around everywhere in our tiny cottage on the Cape. He never leaves my side, but who else is there for him to follow? Father is off working to bring food to our table where as I am here to tidy the home.

                             Our home consist of a few rooms. A room to sleep, a room to sit, a room to cook, and a room to tidy ourselves. The walls and floors are always clean, just the way we want it, and there is always something nice to be eaten whether morning, noon, or night. Neighbors on the nearby shore sometimes come to visit when there is nothing better to do, but there rarely is. The men leave the swirling line of homes, almost all alike, in the morning to venture off in the world, and the rest of us stay to keep the picture still. Occasionally some of the others will go out and attend classes to busy themselves if they have no kid, but not in my case.

                             Anthony is almost three. I have picked up a paintbrush only a handful of times since his birth. Before that, or before his father, paintings filled my little different home. I went to art classes as a hobby my community would say. We all went to art classes to busy ourselves before meeting that one man and settling down. Some of us attempted to continue to paint but we just never had the time. Our children and our homes became more important than our passions. It is the way life is.

                             Some of us though did not marry. Those few continued on in life painting and following their passion leaving social ideals in the wind. I look down at Anthony who at this point is playing with a wooden block taken off of the table. I sigh a little as I put away the rest of the cleaning supplies an go off to grab the sowing needles as Anthony’s father had yet again ripped a shirt that needed to be fixed.

                             The needle goes in and out, smooth, without any hesitation as it mends the beige shirt no longer filled with holes. Just another duty to do. I usually save the sowing work for at night when Anthony is asleep so that he does not disturb the precise movement of the needle. Luckily the blocks placed on the table had found a home within Anthony’s hands and preoccupied him while I began to stitch close another shirt. The process remained in an organized pattern, as it should be, and that way is the way that it remains.

                                                          *            *            *            *            *

                             The light of the sunset gleamed against the lawn. Anthony was wobbling around the house exploring as I cooked dinner. The smell of fish wafted heavily through the home, and even with the windows fully opened the reek of the fish continued to hang everywhere. I coughed a bit as the fish continued to flop in the pan, sizzling to present itself as edible to my family. Anthony at this point, smelling the fish, had climbed into a chair to wait for the food eagerly. He acted so much like his father, and Anthony looked a lot like him as well. Same brown hair all curled. Same brown eyes that, when looked into, act as an endless oblivion. Anthony even acted as energetic and adventurous as his father once was. Maybe it had something to do with growing up on the island…

                             Dinner came and went and with just the two of us I tucked Anthony into bed, his hair sprawling across the pillow and taking up more space than his head. I went alone to bed without any other say. I had no idea when Anthony’s father would be home, but I knew that he would eventually show up. Sometimes I would see his face before I closed my eyes and on those special days I saw him when I awoke. Tonight was not the case as my eyes slowly fell into a slumber to rest and prepare to repeat the process for as long as ever, and to most likely never hold a paint brush again…

                                                         *            *            *            *            *

                             Years later, after two more kids from my husband, I eventually did get to pick up a paintbrush again. It was only a hobby, but holding the paintbrush again was great no matter the circumstance. The kids by this point were all old enough to walk off to school and embrace their island heritage. I on the other hand had remained inside to clean the home by myself. Upon one day of the kids leaving I was left with nothing to do after my daily motherly duties. Looking back into the tiny closet hidden in the home I managed to find an easel layered thick with dust. There was a small set of old brushes and paint underneath the easel and with a strong arm I brought the easel outside on the nice spring day. I cleaned off the easel and the brushes. Despite the years of dust everything was still usable. With the tip of my brush I began to dip it in the water before choosing a color and stroking it against the empty white canvas that was found in the closet. After years of not painting and taking care of my family and home my painting skills were lacking. All those years practicing and all those years painting all for a hobby, even so I was still happy to be able to once again paint for a little while. I wasn’t going to make money selling paintings anyways.

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