Delicate Oath

One | Beginning of Sunrise

Odette Sinclair

I pick the rose by its stem, delicately examining it. Mother always enjoyed this time of year, mid July was the best time in her book. The sunrises and bright flowers left her to see the colors colliding, reminding her of beautiful chaos.

I smile, walking back through the french doors. I set the rose in a glass vase, a gift from my mother 5 years ago. Little butterflies spread around the vase, big and small ones. All of them holding the same pattern in the wings, marbled royal blue and emerald green.

A cool breeze swims through the doors, wrapping around me, making me tilt my head up. It reminds me of the hugs she would give me, the small touches of affection she would show as I painted making it known I was doing a great job. As fast as it came, the feeling left as the world grew still around me.

Picking up a brush, I swirl the tip into red and white paint letting some pinks and oranges sneak onto the brush. The sky holds no secrets within the morning, it holds no resistance of power at dawn, it gives its beauty at full, so why should I cage it?

'Hold the brush gently, give no force onto the canvas Amaya and just do long strokes at first. Then with a smaller brush, blend but enough to where other colors come from the originals.' Her voice still rings in my ears. Mother was a hound for art. Every art auction that played at other kingdoms we would always take a trip there. We would never leave that kingdom's lands without a painting or two in our hands. A painting or two each hand, and there was three of us. To this day, it makes me laugh.

Taking a step back, I observe the painting, "There's something missing," I notice, mumbling to myself. I dip my fine brush into black oil paint, hesitantly adding three birds flying towards the sun. Two bigger ones, leaving a smaller bird in between them. The black oil paint watered on one of the bigger birds, leaving lines going down.

Sighing, I set may brush down,  getting ready to throw the piece out when a voice catches me off guard. "It's beautiful." Looking behind me, my smiling father looks at the painting and then back at me.

"But the oil dripped father, that's not right."

"Sweetheart, it's not what the painting looks like, it's about the meaning behind it." He kisses the top of my head, giving me the brush I put down and watching me as I sign at the bottom. A big 'A' with an 'S' running through the bottom of it. At the bottom of every painting my initials are there.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, this will be hung up wherever you'd like. Just like the rest." He lets out a low chuckle. Thinking about it, I couldn't help but smile. Every painting I've done since I was little, we hung up upon the walls, or gave to people to raise money for the orphanage. It's something that's grown to be a tradition in the kingdom.

"Is there still an empty space by mothers that she did? Maybe we can hang it up there, I think she would like it." I smile weakly at him. He nods and we head down together down the halls where mothers private room is. A space no one knows about.

Our little secret.

I've painted thousands of paintings alongside my mother, most covering the walls of this castle but there are only certain pieces that come into the sacred room and away from the public. We decide which painting comes into the room and if we want to replace it, we lay it in a box within that room. Father grabs the painting from my hands, hanging it up next to the painting I did 2 years ago. My mother's first anniversary of her death.

"Do you think mother would be proud?" My voice wavers.

"Would be? She's always proud of you Amaya. You are her daughter and she was always proud of you; even now she is. You just have to trust that in your heart." He doesn't look down at me, his eyes stay glued to the painting upon the wall.