Chapter 12

Dear Sunshine,

Remember the day you taught me to paint? You squeezed dabs of colour from tiny tubes onto that block of wood. You told me to go mad. Not to think, just to act. Whatever was meant to come out, would. You didn’t care if I wasted supplies or made a mess. You told me it was all important to the process.

We were happy that day. You were happy, filled with equanimous hope. Such a rarity, to see you that way. I wondered why, on that day, you came alive. Was it the paint? The prospect of creation? Or was it the transmission of knowledge, something for which you had passion and promise?

I often remember that day with fondness. It reminds me that it wasn’t all bad. We had our moments.

Thank you for that.

Love
G

Chapter 13

When my family and I road-tripped across the island in the summertime, my siblings and I were each allowed to choose one outing. Something we would all do together. Annabelle always wanted to find a playground. The biggest, most modern playground in town. She loved swinging on the swings, higher and higher until she couldn’t bear it anymore. My father pushed, holding her by the waist and running back and forth, eventually thrusting the swing over his head so she would skyrocket high above the metal bars.

William and I would sit in the grass nearby with my mother as she smoked cigarettes and read books about Antarctic exploration, the men who had been lost or swallowed by ice floes. I studied the minute, almost undetectable transformation in her face as she turned each page. Her dark eyebrows twitching. The space between her nose and the arch of her Cupid’s bow narrowing as she pursed her lips together. I still feel a fuzzy shiver when I think of those men who so consumed her.

William liked any outdoor activity—fishing, camping, going to the beach. A typical little boy who wanted to be a man. He would dig in the backyard for worms, filling a container with dirt and shoving them, pink, squirming, and slimy, into their temporary home. We would walk to the water, my father with his fishing pole over his shoulder, tackle box in hand. William would march by his side, carrying his Batman fishing rod in imitation.

I always asked to visit museums and historic houses. I liked to imagine the lives people had lived, their homes protected by those who felt they were sacred. I liked that nothing was out of place. No dirty dishes in the sink, or toys scattered in the parlour. It all seemed so perfect. It was how I wanted my life to be.

I would move quietly through each space, closing my eyes and picturing the little girls who had lived there. They were just like me, only they were born a hundred years ago. I wanted to slide under the velvet ropes that separated me from the untouchable past.