The Truth About Life

-Olivia: Chapter Twenty-Six-

It’s October. It’s the middle of the night. I’m sitting on my front porch steps; the moon is gloriously bright tonight.

I can smell the dried-up leaves, some still clinging to the trees, others, giving up lay heaped on the ground.

The breeze is blowing softly, crisp, but not yet cold.

Halloween is around the corner, making me think of how much Chase loved this time of year.

“Where are you, baby?” My whispered question is carried away into the darkness.

I look down to the end of our sidewalk, see Chase as a 6-year-old, all geared up and ready to go trick-or-treating. The lower half of his face covered in a red bandana, black felt cowboy hat on his head. Cap gun slung low over his hips.

Brody standing next to him, his blue bandana tied around his neck, a shiny, plastic gold star pinned to his western shirt.Chase a bank robber, Brody a sheriff.

I can see Audrey and Brie floating and flitting about the yard, dressed as butterflies, their colorful gauzy wings flying out behind them. Each of the girls holds a plastic, pumpkin shaped bucket.

 lChase and Brody hold old pillowcases, insisting they’ll hold “way more candy than those puny pumpkin buckets.”

I smile at the memory as their childhood laughter floats away on the night breeze.

This feeling of helplessness, of total failure as a mother, is almost more than I can bare.
 
I pull the afghan tighter around me, seeking its warmth and comfort. I drove around to all the hospitals today, those in our town and the surrounding areas.

The nurses could see the desperation in my eyes, I think, because most of them let me walk past the occupied rooms, quietly peeking in, hoping for a glimpse of Chase, his contagious smile.

But all I see are strangers through the cracks of the doors. Family members sitting by some of the bedsides, holding hands with their loved ones. Sadness permeated the air.

I ran outside, sucking in fresh air, fighting off a panic attack.

I think of my painting and sculpting. Lately, my work has been filled with sadness. Colors of grays and blacks fill my canvases. My sculptures hard, their edges cold.

Needless to say, the art gallery owner isn't thrilled. She isn't used to such hard, dark creations form me.

I went in yesterday to make a delivery. I saw a woman standing in front of one of my larger paintings, the grays swooping up and over the blacks and deep blues. A very faint silhouette is looking upward, searching for hope. The picture is depressing, I’ll admit, but this woman was mesmerized, couldn’t look away.

I watched as Mara, the gallery owner, asked the woman if she had any questions about the painting.

Without looking at Mara, she says, “It’s amazing how the artist captures the despair, the sadness. I can feel the pain radiating off the canvas.”

Mara looks surprised, “Shall I wrap it up for you then?”

The woman nods her head, “Yes, please.”

Mara sees me standing in the corner, discreetly waiting for her, she nods her head at me in approval.

The woman that bought my painting, I’m sure, has felt intense sadness for her to see it so clearly in my painting. None of us are immune to pain, hurt and sadness.

An owl sings his nightly song, forlorn and haunting. I stand up to head inside, make a last-minute wish on a star.

I slowly climb the stairs to bed, heart heavy. I walk past Chase’s room, stop, turn back and open his door. I walk over to his bed, crawl on top and lie down. I close my eyes and breathe deep, even breaths.