Page 30 of I Love My Mistake
I shut my phone off with great difficulty…one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
I look up. “I’m fine. Just get me home, please.”
He nods. I stare out the window – silent.
When we get to my apartment, he helps me bring my bounty in, but everything feels heavier to me now, the thrill lessened. He doesn’t mention that there isn’t much space, but it’s what I’m thinking. I should have bought less. All of this stuff is making my studio look pitifully insufficient.
When we’re done, I give him a fat tip.
“You are very generous. Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do. I needed a little help today.” Just as he’s about to close my front door, I call after him, “Hey!” He turns, eyes wide and waiting. “Thank you. Really.”
“Why am I not here on Earth, but to help good people?” He grins, and I see that one of his back teeth is missing. When he shuts the door it occurs to me that there are angels walking among us, and he – this humble, earnest human being – just might be one of them.
Alone now, I begin to move things around and organize. There is only one antique table remaining as the only piece of furniture in this room. I push it flush against a wall, thinking that it will serve as my storage space for the brushes, oils and acrylics. Piling them onto it, I sort them out into piles.
My couch was taken away yesterday by the Salvation Army, as was my coffee table, plus a couple small rugs I’ve never liked. The colors were all wonky. I’ve disliked them since I bought them, but choosing rugs has never been my strong suit. Nor is keeping house of any kind, if I’m clearing away the cobwebs of denial; literally and figuratively. Watching those rugs get out of my life felt good. But the couch? I second-guessed my decision to lose the couch, the second it was gone.
The small blue toolbox gets grabbed from the closet. My father got me this toolbox for my twenty-second birthday. I thought was a very odd gift, but it’s turned out to be the most useful thing he’s ever given me. I guess somewhere inside him he knew I’d be single, huh? That I’d need to take care of my own handiwork around the house? Nice, Dad. Truth though? It’s surprising how often I’ve needed a screwdriver, a hammer, or measuring tape in the years I’ve lived on my own. Everything he’d put in it has come in handy.
Four thick nails and a hammer will do the trick, today. And fabric scissors, nice and sharp. I place them on the table and start unrolling the canvas to cut off about two yards, which I then nail onto the largest wall I’ve got. When I center and hang it, I take great pleasure in pounding the nails hard into the wall. It’s cathartic; a place to put my anger.
Stepping back – the blood rushing in my veins, my heart pumping – adrenaline springs into action and I feel like I’m flying again, my excitement back on track.
What do I need next? Candles. Digging them out from wherever I can find them, I bring every candle I own into the living room, lighting them all. Squeezing tubes of paint onto a shiny, virgin palette, I follow my heart towards the colors of purple and red with hints of black. My feelings splash onto the canvas, a release that has waited a lifetime for a home that won’t hurt other people. The fury, hurt and betrayal, the loss and the love – spring out of me without reservation or control. Time rushes to keep up until it finally quits trying, ignored and dejected. Food is not eaten. Water is not drunk. Cigarettes not needed. My soul has opened and I am free.