Canvases and Clouds

She's a lovely canvas, isn't she?

Those words utter from mouth to mouth. I keep my head down, feet moving from one cobblestone to another.

"Make sure paths blur in you vision, " Aunt Maple's voice, like grandmother's. The tip of a sewing thread could not be sharper. "If it isn't a blur, you aren't moving fast enough."

"Why can't I be a tree...like you?" I ask, completely out of topic. It feels like the conversation ended there.

And then, "You shouldn't have gone out."

I switch my language as two soldiers stroll past. "This was necessary, Aunt."

"You speak more German than French," Aunt notes.

My mouth dries. With one hand, I cast her away.

French is home, but as war nears, German is survival. But as for shame- Shame is still there, never changing.

What would grand-mère say, if she knew I'd drifted too far off from home? If she knew German sits comfortably on my tongue...and not French?

Fear burns like fuel. And only Aunt knows.

Perhaps, one day, I'd be too careless, and walk too far. Perhaps, one day, when I look back, home would be a stranger, and I would be lost.

A neighbour bumps into me. She points to the grease in my hair, the lump in my throat. Her disappointed tuts. Then the woman leaves.

Another one comes. This one laughs before going.

They splatter blood red paint, ugly grey skies, purple bruised paint, mud coloured brown onto my skin and soul.

She's a lovely canvas, isn't she? they must think.

......

I greet Aunt as I approach the house.

Maison, I translate in my head. Begging my pronunciations to be right. For my words to not slur with my sentence when I say it aloud later on.

"Confidence," Aunt reminds. This season, her hair is a wildfire.

I stagger through the yard and through the door.

The house is bathed in the smell of fresh baked bread. Pollen-like sunbeams sprinkle the curtains. I could see the last of Aunt's written ink words, her charcoal-marked hands on old parchment. The things she left behind when she died, I shall always keep.

"Confidence," I echo. White fluff fills the air. I inhale. My shoulders are light. There is nothing to keep me on the ground, then.

I lift.

The ceiling gets closer. I feel my heart beating. Alive, for the first time in so long.

"GABRIELLE!" The voice is a fist that comes down on the walls. But I do not stutter, nor fall. I can hardly hear the sound. I hardly want to listen.

Grandma yells something I cannot comprehend. That is when she unleashes a rope. It presses hard into my arms and around my waist, scratching my flesh raw. She pulls me down without prompt. I start begging and begging and- please, just let me go- but how can grandma listen? Her face is a blur in my vision- a reflection in fast current water.

Perhaps I am going too fast.

"We need you here," those are her words before she cuts the rope into half and unties me. "You've got a good head on your shoulders, do not risk it. Or do you not want to be here?"

My eyes lock with hers. I am tempted to tell her, "No." But is that really my answer? Do I want to leave? Do I want to go?

"Come. I need help with dinner."

I pick up the newly purchased groceries and follow grandma to the kitchen.

…

The clouds outside the glass,

are brave,

and unbothered.

They are tainted in the colour of yellow, blue, and more. But they are not damaged, like the canvases I have seen before.

Clouds are beautiful.

...

So it must be the city.

The people that creates the scary mystery.

...

The market hazes with smoke. Whether if the food is fresh enough, I don't know, and grandma told me to not care. Pay if you can, and steal if you have to.

So I remember taking food, and paintbrushes, paying for a canvas and a loaf of bread.

I remember the child on the road. I gave her an apple.

“Where are your parents?”

“I live on my own,” she replied firmly. She placed strength in every letter and rooted them to the ground with all her courage.

I admired and wanted all of it. The misery this girl had, if it came with the bravery she did not get to decide whether if she wanted or not.

Perhaps if I did not have a choice, things could be easier, I wonder foolishly.

And of course, it is silly to dream of such a terrible thing.

So I walked off without spending another minute.

Aunt reaches for my hand. We are headed back home.

“Isn’t it lovely?”

The fluff above changes from a sheep, to a bear, to a lion, to a fish, to a giant baby.

“It is,” Aunt agrees. “You could be one of them.”

“And what about home?” I argue.

“And what about you?”

I drop her hand. She is being absurd. “Home is a part of me. It is everything I have. Everything I love. I would never be whole if-“

“You could always visit”

And perhaps it is the leaving that feels wrong.

Perhaps I have always had a thought, that I would definitely go too far.

The strange feeling of losing the original me to a new one.

“You should go now.” Aunt presses on, “Not everyone had this choice. It will be too late soon, if you do not consider.”

…

I must admit it.

I have tried, after that.

I lifted myself up, when I was in the kitchen.

I lifted myself, when I was outside.

I turned into a cloud, when grandma wasn’t there to see.

But the string was there every time. I had tied it around my waist, and attached it, secretly, to grandma’s wrist myself. I could not risk flying away.

Today, grandma sits on a stool. She tells me a fairytale story. Her fingers go to her hand without me realising. She notices the string, and loosens the knot on purpose. The rope breaks.

My eyes go big.

"Grandma."

I remember my knees on the ground and the tears that welled in my eyes, the very first day grandma found out.

I was not sure then, when she had given me my choice. With that one, I had a second to decide.

I am not sure now, when she gives me the same decision to make. With this one, I already had three years to choose.

I look to her face.

She is wrinkled, fragile, and old. Her eyes are pleading. Maybe for me to stay. Maybe for me to leave. I don’t know.

She is my guardian, the person I have known all my life. To others, she is a grandmother. To me, she is a treasure- one I could not trade for anything in the world.

I look to Aunt Maple outside.

The tree branches are thin. Her wildfire leaves have fallen and crumpled on the soil below the snow.

I take the end of the rope, I tie the knot back, around my hand this time, and with the other end, I tie it around my grandmother’s hand.

I have made up my mind.

I have.

I could not leave this. Not her. Not Aunt.

Watching from afar would not be enough. Not for me.

…

The funeral ended yesterday.

I bang my fist on the wall. A river pours from my chest, and I wait for someone to comfort me.

But there is only a tree, and a newly planted seed. No one else I know.

“I THOUGHT YOU NEEDED ME HERE!” I shout at her. The house stays silent after that, as if holding a breath.

There was no one to answer me anymore.

Grandma is gone.

Aunt has gone too, somehow.

I try to lift myself up.

I try,

And try,

And try.

But I have forgotten about the rope. It is still there, after all this time, somehow, stuck around my arm, another end brought to grandma's grave.

Once again, I am tempted to tell her ‘no’. I realise, I do not want to be here forever, I want to feel the seasons change.

“No.” My cracked voice eventually turns sharp. Like hers. Like every canvas I ever knew.

“No!" Desperate.

This time, there is no one to take the string away.

“No.”

This time- This time is too late.

…

“Mother,” Delphine whispers now, halfway into the sky, “I’m afraid.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“You never left. You don’t know.” She clutches my hand tighter.

She’s only a girl. She’s still my child. Why can't I keep her?

No.

I shake my head.

“Don’t be scared to lose every part of yourself. Don’t be scared to lose your language, you childish hobbies, you habits and attitude. Don't be like me,” I tell my Delphine. “Be brave.”

I do not know if my words are correct, but Delphine will find that out for me.

Her eyes gaze to the same house I was in when first flew. Grandma and Aunt's tree ruffle their leaves, as if waving Delphine goodbye.

My daughter nods.

“I will visit,” she reminds me and herself.

I smile and let go.

I watch Delphine join the clouds.

The sunset paints her softly. Yet she is not damaged. She is beautiful.

She is free.