“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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