Water pours over my hands, and then flows into the yellow basin and down the drain. I halfheartedly rub my hands together, somehow missing the larger blotches of color. In the mirror I can see my reflection turn off the faucet and reach for the towel. Then, grabbing the plastic cup covered in layers of colors, I rinse it once more and leave the bathroom.
As I place the cup back on the table in my room, and line my still wet paintbrushes onto the Tupperware container that holds my paint I critically examine the two feet high canvas. The patchy outline of a phoenix flies through a starred sky. It's a good beginning. I reach out to push it back from the edge of the table. The back of my hands are speckled with faint white freckles, and smudges of blue the color of the night sky reach up to my elbows. How they got up that far, I don't know. Good. I think again, that means I've actually done something today.
Several minutes later my dad comes home from work and my mom calls me for supper. I kneel across from her, my dad making the third point of our triangle.
"You're shirt looks kind of messy." My dad points out to my mother as he sits down at the table.
"That's what happens when you work all day" my mom replies, excusing the vibrantly mashed strawberries spotting her front.
Today, like every other day I can remember, she had worked hard. Today's occupation happened to be paring, slicing, and drying pears, picking strawberries and cooking meals.
My family gets frustrated with me when I tell them I won't go into art. "What's the point?" I say "Art is useless."
The next day, blue smudges still make a pattern up my arm. For some reason the washcloth brushed over them lightly.
I like this post. Beautiful words.
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