Tim let himself in after work last night to find me sitting at the dining room table, bent over my art journal, working at a furious pace. I say furious because about an hour earlier, the slow burn that had been sitting in my chest all day had caught fire. I was so pissed I couldn't see straight. Looking back, I don't know why in the world I didn't head right for my cleaning supplies- my house could certainly use it. Instead, I took up with my art supplies, so caught up, I didn't even light Cory's candle or listen to music. It was me and my anger, party of two.
Why was I angry? The same reason as always- Cory is dead. What sparked it? I'm not really sure. Was it all the back-to-school hoopla- the ads on tv, the letters from Battle Creek Public Schools, the pics of people's kids on facebook being dropped off at college, safe and sound? Probably. Was it running into my niece and my nephew's girlfriend earlier in the day, one filling out job apps, while the other ran errands to start her college semester, both of them looking healthy and normal, going about life as it should be gone about? Probably. They looked so young, their eyes so bright; they were alive. Why not my girl?
Not fair, not fair, not fair.
So there I was at the table, attacking a piece of watercolor paper as if it had personally wronged me, and must pay. Tim made his way inside, and did his daily check in. He seemed encouraged to see I had showered; the purple bra had been passed off for yellow...always a good sign. Had I eaten? Yes, I maintained stubbornly, I had. Coffee and a granola bar count for something, don't they?
Gingerly, he sat down beside me, watching me spread my feelings across the page. He tried to engage me in conversation, which for Tim generally means interview-style: lots of questions. After about the second one, I cut him off, apologizing as I did so, but unable to stop myself. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to smell his Reuben sandwich, the odor of which was making my stomach roll. What did I want? What do I ever want?
I swallowed past the huge lump in my throat and turned back to my page. Tim finished eating, and moved to the living room. Alone again at last, I grabbed an old credit card and began scraping gesso across the face I'd just made, obliterating it for all of time. I scraped it so hard, my fury could be heard over the tv and my knuckles in my right hand would be sore in the morning. Tim simply turned the tv up and kept his distance, only calling out once when he heard a frustrated scream from my direction. "Honey, you ok?"
"I just want to break stuff!!" I screamed back.
"Oh dear, let's not do that. We just got new plates." he said, and returned to his show.
Determined not to cry, I swiped my hands across my eyes impatiently, smearing paint and gesso all over my face. I could not get this painting to turn out right no matter how hard I tried. How do you capture feelings this big? Disgusted with myself and my less than mediocre art skills, I left it lie, and went to splash water on my face.
In the bathroom mirror, I looked up to find my face streaked with paint, so reminiscent of war stripes. My eyes looked shell-shocked, still; my face was white and gaunt; my hair stuck out in every direction. That was the picture I'd been trying to make- too bad I didn't think to grab my camera.
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