Sta.sh
"What are we going to do with her!" Jo exclaimed hurriedly, looking at the watch on her wrist with an expression of frustration.
"Nothing more, now."
With that, Sharon signed her up for art lessons at the local community centre, and the matter was settled.
She begun with learning about brushes and colours, often taking her effort home to continue working on them. Sometimes she would stare at the blank canvas for hours, wondering what to paint. She would take up a brush and smear a casual line across the white, then gaze at the single stroke on the canvas, then pick up another brush and make another stroke, this time thinner. As such, she began to paint, slowly, deliberately, carefully considering each stroke. On some days she sat there, endlessly, tirelessly putting down another careful stroke, then gaze emptily at the canvas before her, still as white as when she had first begun.
People came and went, and she would sit there every morning and afternoon in front of the canvas. On some days, she felt more confident and placed larger strokes of brown. The brown of neatly packed lunch bags for five hungry heads, with brown bread sandwiches cut in half, an apple, yoghurt and milk. The dark brown of brownies carefully baked to tempt their father home from some exotic world when Sharon and Jo felt lonely. She did not know how long ago that was, but everyday she would cut herself a sandwich made with brown bread.
When the community centre would not teach her any more, she whiled her time at home, pouring over the canvas. It would be Thanksgiving before she added another colour. Grey, for the colour of dull silverware laid neatly on the table. The grey of overused shower heads and taps as she scrubbed the muddy dirt out of four brown haired younglings. The grey of metallic heaters as she warmed up little grey clothes for a shivering four year old Jo in the dead of winter.
Sometimes they dropped by, bringing with them different things. Linda dropped by during Thanksgiving, bringing with her a roasted turkey and some champagne. Dinner was more festive, but before it was finished, she returned back to her canvas, adding another brown stroke. The darker brown of overcooked turkey and thick meat gravy that she used to cook.
After spending hour after hour gazing at the unfinished canvas, she found herself adding a few specks of porcelain white, the same colour of washing basins and fresh clean sheets she would hang up to dry in the wind every week. The fluttering of white curtains added another stroke of white, as she thought of the white flowing dress worn only once in a lifetime. It was too long ago. She examined the specks of white she added, then reached for a larger brush and forcefully made another stroke. Brown, again.
The canvas began to fill as she continued to paint. Pink, for the lovely Mother's Day cards she longed to receive but never really did. Red, for the roses that she longed to plant in the garden but never had the ability to. There were also some specks of white and grey, as well as the cherry pink of the car she could not afford. She added more brown, the same cardboard brown of moving from house to house.
Joyce would drop by every other week, sometimes bringing with her Mexican or Japanese. She would do some chores, deposit some food and excuse herself out of the front door when she received the urgent call from her husband. It would be a few snowfalls more when she received some new paint, and added a little more white.
The new colours were mostly muted, with the dark brown of bitter chocolate and murky brown of muddy puddles after a rainy day. There was also a crisp light brown, almost golden, like the sunny skies and shimmering sandy beaches as they went for a trip to the shores. The children swam in their bright blue and green swimsuits in the crystal clear cyan of the sea lapping against the light brown sand. She recalled the bright yellow of their floating water wings and omelettes served with hash browns and toast. The children enjoyed themselves in the emerald green water, while she sat in the shade, watching for them. She added some shadow to the canvas.
Jo and her husband finally found time to visit one weekend. They had went to the community centre first, but returned disgruntled and displeased. Sharon had dropped by too, and they spent that Christmas trapped in a blizzard, with frozen pipes and malfunctioning heating.
"She wanted to give you this," Sharon pointed at the painting, still on its stand, in the living room. Jo walked over to it, looking at it suspiciously and a little disgusted. She peered at the brown surface cautiously, before reluctantly lifting it up to the first ray of sunlight peeking through the small slits of the Venetian blinds, a little too forcefully. Flecks of paint on the plain dark brown surface flaked off.
Jo gasped a little as the hidden colours of green and red and white and yellow exposed themselves like glittering fairy dust in the first rays of Spring. There they were, meekly hiding behind the brown paint, caked over with layer after layer of painting over and over.
At the airport, Jo held the painting close, only relinquishing it after the attendant promised not to scratch it in any way. Jo had not seen anything more beautiful in her life.
There she was, standing there, in an old brown dress, by herself, a frail figure crying to herself. Sharon waved good bye too, then returned home in her bright pink Sedan.
She returned home to her canvas and began to paint again. This time, the strokes came a little quicker. They were a little more fluid, a little more relaxed. She would continue to use brown; the brown of clayey soil and oaken resting beds. The loose clayey brown that had become her whole, enveloping her and becoming one.
The last time her children would meet was when the reds and greens and whites and yellows grew out of the soil.
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