A Midsummer Winter

My dad always used to tell me, “you need sunlight”. He used to be a part-time taxi driver, working long nights and driving all over Sydney while I locked myself in my room and painted to my heart’s content. I always felt his hypocrisy, but I never said anything because I knew I was the reason he had to work so hard. I would be riddled with guilt every time he said he had a job, knowing I was the reason both my parents couldn’t simply rest and plan for their retirement. They were busy. They had to work.

I sharply inhaled the cold air as I touched the long blades of grass - the lawn my father never had time to mow, and let Sydney’s winter sun kiss my face. Some people tanned in the sun, others burned. I could never stay in the sun for more than 30 minutes because my sickly pale skin would just fry up. I was always jealous of Amy. She would always come back from her lavish family holidays every July with a fresh tan, revitalised and bursting with excitement. 2 days. 2 days until Amy would return and I have my best friend again. I craved her warmth and infectious energy. She had insisted on staying with my mother and I, but I couldn’t let her do that. Just because my life had been changed forever, didn’t mean she should put hers on hold. The only thing worse than one depressed teenager is two depressed teenagers. Amy’s smile lingered in my mind as I emptily stared at the front lawn.

With burnt cheeks, I headed back inside, inspired by the blades of grass, ready for my next artwork. I picked a handful of the grass blades on the way in and started making colourful concoctions of greens, oranges, browns and reds. Trying to mimic the colour of the grass blades for my own canvas. I used to be the biggest perfectionist, but the act of painting had drawn that out of me ages ago. One thing I had learnt about myself was that, no matter how much time I spent mixing and experimenting, I was never happy with the colour match. Even if I landed on a usable colour combination, the paint would dry in a completely different way, muting and manipulating the tone of the painting. Because of this I usually just stuck to abstract works, but today felt different. I really wanted to capture the dried out grass on the canvas. I kept mixing.

If you thought I would have learnt my lesson after 2 years of painting, you would be mistaken. As expected, the canvas eventually dried and the, once vibrant, grass blades faded into a matted, jumbled mess, each blade barely distinguishable from the one next to it. The painting was drying by the windowsill when my phone rang. The title ‘Amy is the funniest friend on the face of the Earth :)’ blared on my phone and I giggled with excitement.

“Hey”

“I have a surprise for you”. Amy’s voice was upbeat. It was always upbeat. I could hear waves crashing in the background. However, her voice seemed a little strained. I didn’t think much of it. After all she was miles away in Greece or Italy or wherever her family had taken her this time.

I had no time to respond as I heard a knock at the door.

“Oh my God, someone is knocking, hold on”. Amy stifled a laugh. I opened the door. A distinguished man, probably in his 40s or 50s stood there, a gentle smile plastered on his face.

“Are you Samantha?”

“Can I help you?”

“The Astor’s sent me to collect you … are you ready?”

I still had my phone held towards my ear when Amy said matter-of-factly. “You are about to owe me forever”. I stared blankly at the man.

He continued, “I am here to pick you up and send you off to meet the Astors in Spain”

“SURPRISE!!” Amy exclaimed on the phone.

“Amy, that is so sweet, but I can’t leave my mum home by herself”.

Like a meticulously timed movie sequence, my mum emerged from her bedroom, with what I assumed was a packed suitcase. “You need to get out of the house sweetie … I’m ok here”

“Mum, I can’t do that”

“You are 17, I am giving you permission to live a little. I’m not letting you rot in your roo-”

“Mum …” At that moment I glanced at my mother. Her eyes were tired and her brown matted hair had been pinned into a simple bun.

“It's what your dad would want”.

I turned back to the distinguished gentleman, maintaining eye contact, clutching my phone to my ear.

“It looks like I am going to Europe,” I simply stated to no one in particular.

The next 10 hours was a blur of suitcases, passports, checking in, waiting, with a background of excitement and churning in my stomach. I don’t know why I was nervous. This, for me, was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I was gonna spend the next month with my best friend on some lavish, over-the-top holiday where I could finally be carefree.

I was now sitting in the airplane. First Class, with more legroom than my mother’s car. I just let myself smile and soak in the atmosphere. Sometimes you have to silence the guilt, respect the moment, and let the joy, no matter how fleeting, soak in

I pulled out my sketchbook and started doodling, trying to capture everything: the flight attendant’s tight bun, the retractable seat, the important-looking men in suits, the sip of champagne Mr. Walton let me try. I felt like a fish out of water, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

As I finished sketching the champagne glass, I turned the page and a blade of grass fluttered out. I don’t know why, but my eyes welled up. That single blade felt a million miles from where I was now. I stared out the airplane window, letting the sun warm my face.

I wanted to message him. I would’ve killed to talk to him again. But my phone was in airplane mode … not that it made a difference.

So I opened my notes app and typed:

“Thanks, Dad.”

I smiled, tucked the blade of grass back into the sketchbook, and returned to my doodles, excited for whatever came next.