Amber Was The Color Of Her Soul

Amber was the color of her soul.

And I was lucky enough to have seen it.

I was lucky enough to paint it that fateful day in art class.

She had waltzed in on a breeze, her rosy cheeks and curly auburn hair turning the eyes of every guy in the room. But she had looked at me, sitting in the back of the class, and smiled back.

“Got room for me back here?” She asked. I nodded, sure that there was drool dribbling down my chin. She threw her messenger bag on the floor next to the shared table. She rested her elbows on the table and glanced over to the canvas I had laid out in front of me. Her eyes widened, “Holy Macaroni! Did you do this?” She looked to me, her blue eyes wide as she waited. I nodded yet again, still not saying a word, but this time my cheeks flushed red for emphasis. She grabbed at the canvas, the beginning rough sketch of the art teacher outlined.

“This is incredible.” She looked up again, “You have got to teach me how to do this.” I sat, not sure what to say. She held out her hand, the bangles on her wrist tinkling softly.

“My name is Cassandra, but you can call me Cassie.”

“Maverick.” I looked up from the sketchpad, my mind a fog as I gained awareness of my surroundings. Lily watched me with expectation, as if she had asked me a question. She leaned back in her chair, her coffee steaming in her mug, “You didn’t hear a word I said did you.” I tapped my pencil on the tabletop, the soft click comforting in the awkward silence.

“I said that your parents are coming in five days and you still haven’t told them about me. I asked if you were planning on doing that anytime soon?” Lily looked at me over her coffee. She wore her scrubs, her tired eyes already prepared for the long nightshift she had at the hospital.

“I can..I’m p-planning on c-c-calling them tomorrow.” I stammered. Lily huffed as she stood from the kitchen table. She set her mug in the sink and headed towards the front door of our small apartment. She threw her rain coat on while grabbing her keys from the hook on the wall. She leaned on the counter, soft blonde wisps of hair falling in her face.

“You promise you want this?” She whispered. I watched her, my mouth hanging open. The pressure was building in my chest and I wanted to say yes, that I’ve been waiting for this. But I settled for a nod instead. She looked to the floor, her shoulders sagging.

“I’m running late. I’ll see you in the morning.” She headed out the door, the heavy thud making me jump in my seat. I looked down at the sketch pad, not even remembering what I had drawn.

Curly hair and a round face began to peek out from the canvas. I threw the pencil down and ripped the paper from the sketchpad. Without thinking, I grabbed my coat from the hook and headed out of the apartment. The busy streets of New York never knew when to be quiet, especially when someone was wanting peace and quiet. The city sounds only seemed to grow louder the further you walked under your storm cloud. I began to walk, like I had been most nights Lily was working at the hospital. I couldn’t stay in the apartment when she was gone. She didn’t know I spent most nights wandering the streets, like I had used to.

“Maverick! Wait up!” I turned, Cassie chasing after me. Her cheeks were rosy as I made my way towards school. It had been three years since she moved to New York City and ever since that fist day she had been walking with me to school. “You didn’t wait for me!” She hit me in the shoulder as I huffed. I rolled my eyes and kept walking.

“You were l-l-late.” She huffed.

“Perfection doesn’t just happen naturally.” She motioned down to her outfit, which was far from perfection. She wore khaki’s with old school converse, her hair was pulled up in a messy bun and her button-down shirt was most definitely not buttoned properly. I chuckled as we rushed the last mile to the school house.

“Watch where you’re gong buddy!” A man ran into my shoulder, the ghost of the past clearing from my vision. I turned into the art museum, not thinking about what I was doing. There was a woman at the front desk, and when she saw me, her eyes lit up.

“Mr. Grenshaw! It’s great to see you again.” She smiled as I nodded my head in recognition. She went back to her business and I made my way towards the back of the museum. I found my normal bench and I sat before the one painting I had ever submitted.

I looked at Cassie, her painting hanging under a spotlight. The museum had asked to display it after an art show I had done. I didn’t want to display the piece but having it at my first show made it seem right somehow. I knew I’d never run into her again, so this was the only way. When I had been approached about displaying the piece at the small art museum, it also felt wrong to say no. She deserved to be looked upon and admired, to be remembered. She looked back at me over her shoulder, her eyes bright and shining with an emotion I had only realized after it was too late. There was a background of the city skyline, we had been in my apartment and she had been sitting before the windows posing for me wrapped in nothing but bed sheets. There was so much going on around the painting, so much beauty in the skyline and ordinary life, but all that seemed to blur into nothing when you saw her.

“You sure I don’t look stupid?” She had said.

“Nothing c-can make you look s-stupid. You’re perfect.” I replied. She had then given me this look that I was never able to get out of my head. An emotion had filled her eyes, such deep love and admiration that it had prompted me to paint the only masterpiece I had in my career. That had been five years ago.

It was three months later when she had the seizure.

And then six months later when I stood by her casket.

I felt the bench creak next to me. An older woman had taken a seat next to me, her coat folded neatly over her arm, her purse hanging on her shoulder. She gave me a smile as she sat, her eyes warm and inviting. I battled within myself, trying to decide whether I should stay or go when she asked,

“Do you mind if I join you?” She smiled. I shook my head. I guess I was staying. She looked to the photo and sighed. “This is my favorite painting in all of New York.” I widened my eyes, looking from the painting to the woman. I wasn’t sure what to say. If I took credit, that would make me look like a liar. I mean, what are the odds the painter goes to stare at a painting every day of his high school sweetheart?

“I love the way the artist sees nothing but her.” She points to the painting, “You can see the skyline in the background and the way the sunset blazes everything to life, but when you see her.” She paused, letting her hand come to rest over her heart. “Every brushstroke that surrounds her is good, but every brushstroke that makes her is gorgeous. There’s nothing more beautiful than the love the artist has for this woman.” I was shocked as I watched the woman. She had read more into the painting than even I had intended there to be. I looked to the painting again, trying to see it in a new light.

“But,” She continued. “What is most impressive is how he sees the color of her soul.” She looked to me.

“Excuse me?” I said. The woman chuckled as she looked at the painting.

“My husband always used to tease me about it, but as I see it, every soul has a color and this artist sees her color.” I looked back to the painting. Cassie had been an exceptional person. She was vibrant and full of life. Even as she laid in the hospital, her hair gone and nothing left but her bright blue eyes, she had been bursting with happiness and love. Out of the two of us, it felt more like I had been the one who died instead of her.

“How do you k-know what someone’s c-c-color is?” The woman waited patiently as I spoke. She seemed to take a moment to think, formulating her words carefully.

“A normal person goes day to day only seeing the things they have to see in life. They see their job, they see their family, they see their bills and payments and taxes. When they see friends, they only see the fulfillment they get from those people and how it benefits them in return.” She leaned back in the seat, her hand absently patting her purse. “I had been that way. But when I met my husband, he had seen my color.” She smiled.

“I still d-don’t unders-stand.” I looked to the painting, “How do you k-know what her c-color is?”

“Only the artist knows the color of that which he loves.” She said. I looked to the woman. Was she serious? I looked around the museum and found that no one else was around to witness the strangeness of this encounter. When I looked back she was still staring at the painting. I leaned back in my seat yet again, and watched with her.

“Is it p-possible to see the color of more than one p-p-person in our lifetime?” I watched Cassie who seemed to be smiling right at me, her eyes warm and encouraging.

“Honey, we can see the colors of so many different people. That’s what makes life so beautiful.”

“But how? What if our v-vision is only f-full of one c-c-color?” The woman looked to me, understanding filling her eyes. She reached out and set her wrinkled hand on top of mine.

“It takes time, and practice. The world is full of color love, but not everyone is going to see that. An artist does not become an artist in a day. He spends years and hours and every minute perfecting his craft. This artist saw this woman, but he did not see her color. He spent time and hours and every minute learning how to mix every shade to get it just right. Each color is different and each shade is different just like every person is different. It just takes time.” She patted my hand as she began to gather her things.

I thought of Cassie. The moment we had met, the times we had laughed together, the funny moments we had goofed off and the many occasions we had gotten into trouble. But I also thought of the times we argued and yelled. When we had cried together and spent days cuddled under the blankets trying to escape the reality of life. She had been everything, my whole life and she was the only color I saw. So when that canvas was wiped clean, I had nothing but white to stare at.

And I had never been able to fill that blank space.

But then there was Lily. She had been there at the hospital and had cared over Cassie during the last few months. When she had reached out months later and asked if I wanted to get coffee, she had been the shoulder to lean on. I hadn’t thought much of it but before I knew it, she was calling me her boyfriend and I still didn’t know what to think of it. She was fun and kind and caring. Honestly, she was fantastic, and we had many great memories together.

I looked to the painting, the smile on Cassie’s face seeming to grow brighter. I had visited this museum for the past three years hoping to feel something, to see something, to hear something from Cassie. I had stared at this painting in hopes of seeing something I had never noticed before, but her color? I had never thought of her color or Lily’s color.

“Well, thanks for taking the time to listen to a rambling old woman.” The woman turned and smiled, her teeth showing and eyes light. She leaned in and whispered, “I have to say. You truly are a talented artist.” She turned to look at the painting and got up, walking away without another word. I was left in a state of surprise and uncertainty.

I still wasn’t sure if the woman had been real or if she had just been a figment of my imagination. I looked to Cassie one last time before I left, maybe it was a sign. The walk back to the apartment had been long, my thoughts jumbled with the idea of color and what shades I would need to blend the color of Cassie’s soul. What shades would I need to blend the color of Lily’s soul?

When I got home, the small apartment seemed bigger than before. I walked over to the corner of the room where my easel was set up and I began to paint. I let my thoughts wander as I began to outline the form of the body. I didn’t think as I mixed the colors and blended the shades to get just the exact right color I had been envisioning. The sun had risen and its glare was now in my eyes, but that didn’t stop me. By the time I was finished, I had heard the jangle of Lily’s keys in the door. I turned to see her walk in, a surprised look on her face when she saw where I was. She looked to the painting, a look of sadness crossing over her face. She set the keys down and walked over to stand next to me, her hands resting on her hips. She looked at the painting for a long while and when she looked to me, there were tears in her eyes. She reached out and grabbed my hand giving it a squeeze.

“This is beautiful.” She looked back at the painting, the tension in her shoulders tightening. I set the canvas down and put the new one up, the painting I had fist done of Lily. She sat at the kitchen table in her scrubs, her coffee cup set before her steaming. She was looking out the floor to ceiling windows taking in the skyline. Everything about the photo was mundane, normal. I didn’t let anything stand out in a fantastical sort of way except for Lily. In this photo, she was everything she had been for me over the past year. She was calm, grace, kind, love.

“Mave, I don’t know…what to say.” She turned to me, tears in her eyes. I reached out and pulled her close.

“You don’t have to s-say anything.” She wrapped her arms around me and held me tight, her tears leaking through my shirt. “I learned something today. Something I didn’t k-know I needed.” She leaned back.

“What is that?” She smiled, that glint I had found in Cassie’s eye forming in hers.

“That you are the color of the sky.”