~Thoughts...they are like endless sleep in my head...~
Brooke and Jake had to leave sooner after dinner since they both had an early and busy day the next day – much to Gran’s disappointment. But they promised that they’d come by and visit when they’re both less busy.
After bidding them farewell and helping Gran with the dishes, Dad retired into his office to catch up with some paperwork while I left Gran to watch some sitcoms on TV.
I flipped the switch on, brightening light into the medium sized room and entered. The room contained a huge bookcase filled with all kinds of books which was positioned behind a mahogany office desk and leather chair. There was also a leather couch and a mini glass table; an easel with a half completed canvas and a small table with a two tins; each containing paintbrushes pens and pencils respectively; near the French door that led to the balcony.
This was my mother’s art studio and private study before it was passed down to me when I turned twelve. Gran wasn’t always fond of me doing my artwork in my bedroom since it mean hours of scrubbing the paint off the floor and table. Dad was reluctant to giving me access to that room but after a small push from Gran, he eventually gave in.
Though the room was a place where I could do my artistic creativity and school work, it also became my sanctuary. My little safe haven where I would go to whenever I wanted to be alone to get lost in the world of fiction or read about historical and architectural places in the world and also get lost in my art.
I settled down at the desk and reached for the small picture frame that stood next to the reading lamp. In it was a photograph of three people. In the middle was my father who was about twenty or so years younger. To his left was Brooke, who was about twelve years old, wearing a floral dress and some red ballet shoes. And to his right was my mother, who was wearing a long red dress that showed off her pregnancy bump.
I let out a sigh and place the frame back where it belonged.
I never knew my mother personally. She died giving birth to me, way before she could even see me. If anything, my mother was an enigma, a phantom so mysterious I couldn’t even begin to understand. Gran was basically the only mother figure I had growing up. What I knew about her was basic if not textbook knowledge at best. Much like myself, she was an artist who was aspiring to make it big into the Art industry and was on the road to do so until Death decided to be a dick and cut her life short before that could even happen. She loved to travel and read – one of the many things that influenced her art. She was quiet and reserved but very pleasant to be around.
But the information I had about her was merely just stories and recollections of Gran, dad, and Brooke’s memories of her – people who actually had seen and interacted with her in a way that I didn’t. Listening to her stories as a child used to fascinate me since I was at a stage where I was too young and naïve to understand. It’s because of those stories and seeing her art that got me interested in art in the first place and I felt a sense of obligation to follow into her footsteps and keep her legacy going.
But as I grew older and mature, it felt unfair. It was unfair that the rest of my family had something to remember and have an emotional attachment with her. Something I didn’t have. At some point in my life I loathed myself for being in such a position all because my mom died giving birth to me. That was why I always got uncomfortable and out of place whenever they talked about Mom.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Gran. I appreciate her for being there for me and Brooke growing up. I could image how hard it was for Dad mourning his wife whilst staying strong for his kids. But a part of me still longed for a mother’s love. Not a grandmother’s love.
Pretty selfish, I know. But I am human. Every human is driven by selfishness and desire.
I opened one of the drawers and took out my sketchpad and 2HB pencil and started sketching.g.