Am I ready for This?

I remember the first time I ever created something so beautiful. It was years ago, on a gloomy, rainy day. I found solace in days like those, but this day was the day I stitched pain into art. I was 13 when my mom , Savannah and dad, Micheal died in a car crash. The man that killed them was drunk off his ass, and too intoxicated to even see straight. Once he came to in the hospital, he immediately let out a scream of anguish all could hear, even me. I was in the other room, being told that my only loved ones were gone. My screams mixed with his, and I felt nothing but pain.

The trial was simple, only due to his pleading guilty for his crimes. During his sentencing, I told him I forgave him, even though it wasn't entirely true. I just didn't want him to suffer more then he would.

I had no siblings, and only an aunt,Diana, on my dad's side. She immediately adopted me into her family, consisting of her husband,Carl, and Isabelle, their baby girl. They loved me and I them. But the hole in my heart never truly healed, and I'd never felt so alone.

On this day, my aunt said she needed to run errands, and like a good man should, my uncle went with her. They took baby Isa with them and reluctantly let me stay at home.

Their small home never seemed bigger to me. I could hear the hallways creak when I stepped on them, the doors seemed to be mocking me with it's secrets, and I felt loneliness place itself in my heart.It felt like the place was frail, and one mishap would knock it down.

I felt myself snap. My heart seemed to burst and I couldn't take it anymore. I needed an outlet, something that could fix the pain.

I remembered the paints and canvas in Auntie's bedroom.

I wasn't allowed to go in their room without permission from Auntie. I didn't mind that rule at all. It was the only rule they had. I respected their privacy and they respected mine.

But I couldn't help it.

Without hesitation, I ran in and stole the paintbrushes, paint, the canvas, anything I could get my hands on and darted into my room.I remembered the water she set out on the nightstand for me, and decided to use that.

I grabbed a random brush, and mixed the red and blue together. I hesitated just before it hit the canvas. Would this be worth it? Would I screw this up too?

I gritted my teeth and spread the paint on the blank space. It seemed I was working for hours before the returned.

"Lilac?" She called for me. I didn't answer. She comes to my room and knocks on the door.

"Lilac? Are you okay?" She asks. I didn't answer.

She opens my door and whatever she was going to say stopped. I could hear the drink she brought drop to the floor and she fell with a thud. He husband hears this and comes to the room with the baby.

"Is everything o-oh my god," he begins but pauses and whispers. I sobbed at the painting of my mom, surrounded in lilacs and lilies, eyes closed. I felt arms around me as I cried. The feeling of pain was replaced with shock, and a full ache.

From then on, I guess I was recognized for a talent I never knew of. In school, I was called "Silent Lilac boy" and "Artist Ache" due to me being quiet and shy. My art spoke for me in volumes. No one could not stop tears from their eyes when they saw it. My aunt stayed supportive of me, and always requested a painting of daffodils, her favorite flower. I never minded. It was nice to be able to paint my feelings away.

Years passed. I got to art college, and became a teacher. My aunt passed and went to her husband in the afterlife. Isabelle moved away with the promise to call me everyday. I met a girl who reminded me of a sunflower, Sammy. We fell on love and got married. Two years later, she gave birth to my beautiful baby boy, Forest. We became a happy family.

However, as my happiness grew, my inspiration shortened. It was like my spark grew dimmer. I decided to take a break. Days became weeks, and weeks became years.

After 7 years of teaching art but not producing it, my fans grew doubtful. I did too. My lovely wife, still as beautiful as a sunflower, even in her 40s, never gave up on me. My son believed in me too.

And while it helped, I never got my spark back. In our 60s, She grew ill and had to go in a hospital. We learned she would not make it after 8 months. We decided to make the most of it. We did things on our bucket list. Climbed a mountain, visited the Sahara, visited Paris. I knew it was only a matter of time before she was bedridden forever. I didn't want it to end that way.

She fainted in our home at the 6 month mark. I took her to the hospital as fast as I could. I called Forest, who was in college, and he rushed down to see her. She was so happy to see us with her. She said she loved us and she was proud of us. She never stopped believing in me even as she drifted away in that bed. With tears and heavy hearts, she took her last breath and flatlined.

Her funeral was a month later. All of our friends and her family came to pay respects. It was a blur for me. Isabelle came back to stay and help. She comforted me as I cried on her shoulder.

Its the three year anniversary of her death. I felt like I did on that gloomy day, the pain hurt my chest so much. Isabelle had work, and Forest was on his own now.

I picked up my paints and paintbrushes that sat in my cabinet. My head turned to the canvas on the eisel. And like that night, I began to paint. My sorrow, my love, my happiness stroked it's way onto the canvas and into my eyes as a picture slowly came to shape. By the time I was done, Isabelle had come home, and like her mother, came to check on me. She laughed and cried with me as we sat back and looked at the painting.

Forest and his fiancee, Cedric, had invited me to their wedding, and I happily accepted. I walked my baby down the isle to his love, and shook the man's hand. The ceremony was beautiful, the beautiful creamy colors matching with the pale yellow. Once the ceremony ended and they cut they cake, everyone gethered around to see them open gifts. My gift to them was last. I smiled at them as they opened it and grinned, the tears not stopping on their faces. They turned it around for all to see. Isabelle and Forest hugged me tightly, crying into my suit happily while looking at my newest masterpiece.

The painting of my lovely Sally, My supporting Aunt Diana, and My beautiful mother Savannah, all laying in a field surrounded in a forest. All around them lay beautiful lilacs ,lilies, daffodils, and sunflowers. Eyes closed with wide smiles, forever etched into their faces. Forever happy in their afterlife.