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I nod. “Thanks, Mom. I’m going to go and… get that thing now.”
She wraps her arms around me saying, “Don’t let it get on top of you,” before she climbs out of the car.
I turn the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life and my mind going blank. I don’t know where to go, but I know I need to clear my head so I point the car in the direction of my studio, hoping it will give me the same sense of peace that it always does.
I drive toward my destination, feeling a wave of emotion take over me as the darkness of the tunnel looms ahead. The familiar ache of what could have been sears through me like I’ve been branded with a hot poker and I have to physically rub at my chest to stem the pain that flows through me.
I haphazardly park and throw open the door to the studio, but when I’m standing inside, I don’t feel the satisfaction that I should by being here. Ever since Gerry called earlier, I can’t stomp out this primal urge to chase the past. Perhaps I should listen to it?
I fill a crate with canvases, paints, chalks, and paintbrushes, hastily locking the
door with one hand as I leave. And without putting any more thought into it, I point my car in the direction that my heart is screaming to be.
When I arrive, it’s dark, the only light coming from my headlights. They give the area a shady ambience, conveying how I’m feeling being back here. Nothing feels beautiful about this place anymore.
I drag the crate of art supplies out of the trunk of my car and sit in front of the hood so I have light for what I’m about to create. I need a creative release.
I pull out the paintbrushes and bottles before squirting out a few dark, gloomy colors into a palette. This won’t be a colorful, happy painting, it won’t be how I normally decorate a canvas; with care and love. I need to let my emotions take over and spill out onto the surface; I know it will be a messy swirl of turmoil.
I begin roughly painting the landscape in front of me, pouring my heart, soul, and unshed feelings onto the canvas, thinking about the last time that I was here. It hurts so damn bad, but why am I letting it get to me so much?
Maybe it’s not the situation I’m letting get to me, maybe it’s the fact that I’m unhappy in my choices and I’m digging up past experiences, looking for an excuse as to why my marriage failed?
I wanted it to work so badly, but I guess wanting it wasn’t enough.
The rough edges of the drawing only fuels my emotions and I spiral out of control. The paintbrush drops out of my hand as I feel rain drip onto my hot skin. I look up at the sky and realize that in actual fact it isn’t raining, it’s unwanted tears. Tears that display the turmoil going on inside me, a turmoil I can’t voice out loud in the fear that I’ll learn that the breakdown of my marriage was my fault. But it wasn’t, I know that deep down. I tried, I tried so goddamn hard! I didn’t force him to cheat, nothing I did warranted being told I wasn’t good enough, yet it still happened.
I always treated him with no less than he deserved. I cooked, I cleaned, I took care of him in the best way, but it was never enough. I wasn’t enough. He’s using my past to excuse his behavior toward me and it’s not fair that he’s bringing it all back up.
I push up off the ground, the canvas tumbling to the gravel as I pace back and forth, taking in big gulps of air to try and calm myself down. My head swirls with conflicting emotions, overwhelming me to the point that I’m hyperventilating.
I can’t go back in time, what was I thinking by coming here?
My body sags as I come to a stop, completely exhausted. I decide to climb into the back of my car and lie down with an old sweater tucked under my head. I’ll rest my eyes for a few minutes before I head home and put all of this behind me once and for all.
I wake up with an ache in my neck and a dry, raw throat from all my crying. I climb out of the car so I can stretch my sore muscles out, my gaze traveling over the landscape. In the morning light, the scene in front of me provides me with a different perspective than the one I’d painted last night.
I bend my knees and pick up the canvas, sighing at the gloomy scene I’ve depicted. It looks nothing like the bright, softer paintings I normally create, and I can’t leave here without showing the true beauty of this place. It makes me feel angry being here, but I can’t deny that it’s beautiful. And even with last night’s emotions still swirling around in my head, I feel like I need to do this to calm the storm raging within.
I collect the paintbrushes that are strewn across the ground before pulling out a bottle of water from the car, cleaning the brushes off and wetting my parched throat.
I sit down in the same place that I did last night and pull a blank canvas onto my partly raised legs, sighing in contentment as I find the colors I want to use and touch the bristle of the brush to the surface for the first time.
Looking up and breathing in the early morning air, the gentle sway of the willow tree’s branches catches my attention, making me see how truly beautiful it is here. The oranges and pinks of the sunrise mixed with the lush green grass makes for a stunning palette. My hair falls in my face and I sweep it over one shoulder, feeling the calm of a new day wash over me.
The morning has opened up my perspective on the situation with Gerry. I know that I never treated him with anything less than the love and support that a wife should show their husband, and I need to remember that. I let my emotions get the better of me last night, I let him weave his way into my psyche again, making me feel like I wasn’t good enough, making me second guess myself. I won’t do that again.
Happiness is fleeting, I should know this more than anyone. When times are dark and I feel like I’m drowning, I know that happy times will always come around again soon. I need to wait things out and get this divorce over and done with.
Gazing at the looming willow tree in front of me, the notion that this place of all places has given me the courage to try and move forward with my new start in a positive way, makes me laugh. It was once a place I associated with deep rooted pain. It still hurts, but I think I can manage it and move on with my life. Instead of locking it up, I need to let myself feel so I don’t get so overwhelmed again.
I don’t stay long after I’ve finished the painting, I don’t need to sit and reminisce any more than I already have, so I pile everything into the back of my car and drive back to Mom’s, feeling content with my new outlook.
I park a few houses down, not able to go inside the house. I watch the door, trying to muster up the courage to go and have an adult conversation with her about where I’ve been, she’s bound to have been worried.
Deciding I’m being stupid because my mom has never judged me before, I drive the short way to the driveway and park, hesitating briefly before walking up to the crimson door. The smell of coffee invades my senses as I walk into the hallway and I follow it into the kitchen, seeing Mom at the table reading a book. She looks up from the pages and gives me a sad smile as I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit next to her.
“Where were you last night?” she eventually asks, but not in a pushy way, in a concerned mom way.
