Shades of green

There’s a little pot of flowers on the windowsill behind the sink that I stare at every time I get yelled at. She’s got a grey clay pot. Not charcoal-colored, and not exactly ashy either. I’d say she looks kind of like steel, other than the fact that she’s matte, of course. She looks the same as the pots and pans in the kitchen, or the microwave and dishwasher. Everything in here is kind of the same, which is helpful because whenever I get yelled at my eyes just dance around to all the grey objects I can find. I have a game where I try to count all of them before Mom is finished with her lecture to me. 

The only thing different about this little pot of flowers is the fact that it has flowers and leaves and life. She’s got small little white flowers at the ends of her branches. Like painted nails on the tips of her fingers except maybe nails aren’t the best way to describe them. Her leaves are green. Not a bright emerald and not a dusty sage either but somewhere in the in-between. A little bit like chartreuse but a lot darker. You’d think that since I’m being yelled at for loving art that I could be a little better at identifying colors but I guess not.

I’ve loved art since I was a little baby. I would paint and sketch and draw and color all the time. The only person who didn’t love me loving art was my mom. She likes to say it’s useless in life and that it would take me nowhere. Maybe she’s right, but I’d always imagined she would at least be giving me an ounce of support. One flower petal’s weight. 

Today we’re talking about college. I want to go to art school and she’s telling me over and over again that it’s useless. 

“You know you could be doing more, Honey.” Her eyes are trying to be sincere but I can see through them. “I want to support you but I know you have the potential to be so much more.” Lies. I’m not sure exactly what she wants me to be, but the terms Doctor or Lawyer has passed by her lips more than a couple times. 

I think a part of it comes from the fact that she’s never been to college. I know she regrets that. But placing her missed opportunities onto me isn’t helping anything or anyone. She can’t live vicariously through me for the rest of her life. I can’t be responsible for ensuring her happiness this way. No one should ever feel pressured into being someone else’s happiness. Or maybe that’s a little harsh. 

I love art. I know it’s a stretch to pursue it completely as a full-time job, but hey a girl can hope. I just can’t imagine wasting my time studying another field only to despise every waking moment of it. I don’t think Mom recognizes that by asking me to give up on my passion, she’s making me another copy of her. I’ll just grow up to resent her for taking away my opportunities. Then perhaps I’ll make my son or daughter go to art school when all they want to do is become a lawyer or doctor. Then the cycle will continue.

I find that kind of funny, so before I realize it, I let out a laugh. Mom doesn’t find this funny though. She’s angry now, or just extremely frustrated. I’m frustrated I still can’t figure out the shade of green the leaves are.

“Honey. I’m trying to be serious with you here. Please just listen.” She’s pleading. That’s a change in tone. I’m a little uncomfortable with her now that she’s not just yelling at me, so back to the little pot of flowers my eyes go. I’m considering starting a new game. Count as many leaves of the plant as you can before you go crazy. 

I am listening to her. I can hear her words pretty clearly because I’m not putting in that much effort to zone her out. Still, I just don’t understand it. I don’t understand her. 

She’s still talking, now all about her college experience. Or lack thereof. She’s talking about her mother and her childhood and how I should be so grateful to have the economic opportunities for college that I shouldn’t waste it on art school. Waste it! I’m considering spending all that college tuition for pre-med only to quit that field and become a full-time artist after it’s over. Now that’ll be a waste just to spite her. I’m laughing again, because I can pretty clearly envision just how mad at me she’ll be then. Now she just looks disappointed.

“Look honey, I know this is hard for you to understand. I would hope you’d listen to me but now I know you’ve just been completely ignoring me. Just think about it, okay?” 

Fine. I will. And I haven’t been ignoring her but I choose not to say anything. My eyes shift from the flowers to her eyes. I nod. I nod and my eyes go back to that pot of flowers. 

35. 

Pewter grey.

35 objects of pewter grey. 

Green. What shade of green? Not pickle or mint or basil or fern or lime and now all I’m doing is listing green foods. 

She’s left the kitchen. I’m still sitting on the island, my eyes still watching the pot of flowers. I’m thinking about it, and I’m spending quite a lot of time thinking about it but I just don’t see it going any other way. I know what I want and I really don’t think anything is going to change. I hear her but I just don’t understand why she’s saying what she’s saying. 

I’ll think about it. I’ll continue thinking just for her. Maybe I could be one of those scientific artists like a medical illustration who draws anatomy parts or plants. Maybe I could become a lawyer to advocate for art supplies. At this point, it’s funny again. I can picture myself sitting in court and my client besides me is a box of colored pencils. I’m laughing again. Uncontrollably. 

Mom walks in to my laughter. She looks concerned because I’m sitting alone staring at the windowsill and I’m laughing. She doesn’t understand that I don’t understand. She thinks I’m crazy. I would think so too. 

“Mom.” She looks apprehensively like she’s desperately wanting to hear me say the right words. 

“Yes Honey?”

“It’s Moss green.” I stand up, walk up to the window, pluck one leaf off the plant, and go to my room. It’s moss green.