Crayons on the Floor

We never understood anything about each other. We didn’t know each other’s last name and we definitely never heard the other’s middle name. We didn’t know why we ended every night together, side by side on the couch in front of the TV screen. We talked about our days at work, about things we could do this weekend, but neither of us knew what the other’s job really entailed. We never ended up going camping or trying a new restaurant out that weekend. We were caught in a loop, watching shows on TV but it was like the TV was watching us. Watching us return every night at 8pm with styrofoam takeout boxes and a bottle of cheap wine. 

I think looking back that maybe we were bored. That, when we turned on the television, the actors on the screen made us feel like we were doing something too. Living out these lives like the stories played out on screen. But, really, when the credits started to roll, we would brush our teeth, turn out the lights, and live that same scene over the next day. Everyday.

One day, my mother died. This knocked our routine out of whack. Instead of on a couch cushion in front of a screen, I stayed curled up in a ball on our bed. Day after day, I stayed in bed. He would say something to me every morning, leave for work, and I would still be in bed. He would come home in the evening, turn on the TV and he would sit on the couch with a styrofoam takeout box and when the credits rolled, he would brush his teeth, murmur something I wouldn’t remember, and we would fall asleep. And the same scene played out the next day. It stayed like this for a week until one day, I got out of bed.

One day, I got out of bed, and I went into the closet where there was a shoe box. In the shoe box, held some photos of me as a kid. I looked for a picture of my mother. I found a picture of myself with my mouth open wide and my eyes squeezed shut. I was probably two years old, and my mother was there too, holding me by my armpits away from her with a tired smile on her face. I could almost hear my baby self wailing.

I took the picture and dropped it on my desk. The next picture in the shoe box was me, maybe five or six years old and I’m scribbling on the walls. The photo was of the back of me, with crayons on the floor and me looking up at my masterpiece, a rainbow between two clouds. 

I put the shoebox away and I took the picture of my mother holding me while I cried. I propped it up against the lamp on my nightstand. 

The next day, I woke up and he was already gone for work. On this day, I took that picture of me and my mother and I got up. I brought the photo to the bathroom and brushed my teeth for the first time in a week, put on makeup, and stared at that picture.

I took that picture, and I brought it with me to the kitchen and made myself breakfast. This was the first time I had breakfast in a long time. 

I took that picture, and I put it in my purse and I walked to the art supply store. I don’t really understand why I did this, and I hadn’t ever been to the art supply store before. I found some acrylic paints and a few brushes and a canvas, and I walked home.

I took that picture of myself crying with my mother holding me to the coffee table in the living room, and I laid out all the paints and took the canvas out of its plastic sleeve and I started to paint.

I don’t understand why I did this, but I painted a picture of a sunny day. 

I took that picture of me and my mother, and I looked at it long and hard, yellow and blue finger prints smudged all over the photograph.

He came home, and he asked me to clean up my mess so he could sit and have dinner in front of the TV.

And then I realized; he didn’t understand me. And neither did I, him. And for the first time, in a long time, I cleaned up the paints, and left to go out and get dinner alone. He sat on the couch, opened his styrofoam takeout box, and flicked on the tv.

I don’t understand why I did this, but I looked back at him as I shut the door, and I think that’s when I finally started to understand.

I took that photo of me and my mother with me, and I sat at the diner and looked at the photo while I picked at a plate of french fries. I walked home, and he was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. He saw me in the mirror, and we caught eyes. He muffled something in between brushes, and I replied, “We never understood each other.”

I took a duffel bag of my favorite clothes and the shoebox of photos. When I opened the door, it was raining. I took my photograph of me and my mother, and I held it to my chest, and with my next breath I leapt out into the rain. 

I dropped my duffel in the grass between the sidewalk and the road. I kicked off my shoes, and I danced. I danced and I danced and I danced until suddenly I was crying fat hot tears. I felt the warm tears flood my eyes. I stilled my body for a moment  and I wrapped my arms around myself. The clouds began to part. The sun came out and dried up all my tears. I looked down at my heavy rain-soaked clothes, and when I looked up a rainbow materialized to frame the sky. I think I’m starting to finally understand.