For Every Missing Shade

Entry 13

My alarm went off in the morning, but I didn't struggle to get up. I was already wide-awake. I had questions running through my mind and scenarios already painted in my head.

I woke up to do homework, but something else was on my brain.

I walked into my garage and pulled open the door. I let the pale light flood the room. The sunrise reflected its deep orange on the snow outside, making it glisten. I knew what to do.

The garage was cold so I brought out a coat, sweatpants, and a few space heaters. I put hand warmers in gloves and stuck every tube of paint I had into them so they would keep warm.

I put up a new canvas onto the easel and looked at it for a second. I knew what I wanted to paint.

I found some pinks and blues, so I decided to use them.

I made light blue, almost white streaks across the background. It was pale and stark, but muted. Like the sky near the horizon on a sunny morning.

Out of the corner, I painted a tall cloud. In it I mixed together greens and pinks. Small lines and shades flew around inside. Lines streaked, one over the other. blended into each other, contrasted each other. It looked beautiful as I stepped back. Chaotic, but magnificent. I painted two or three smaller clouds, then moved on.

I picked up the pink, red, and black. I painted some roses around the center. They varied in size and shape, and were generously numbered throughout the canvas. I didn't spend much time on them; I wanted them to be pretty, not perfect. After I got done, I spilled a line of paint down from a few of their petals. With a pallet knife, I streaked that line down the canvas. The paint covered other roses, dripping over them. Stepping back, they looked exactly like I felt: something beautiful, dripping with color. Like I felt when I met her.

The painting looked beautiful. Everything was light, airy, floating in the clouds. But at the same time, everything was passionate and disordered. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't need to be. Colorful things rarely are.

I took a picture of it and saved it on my phone. I set the canvas back down on the easel and marveled at the mess I had created. It might not have been the most beautiful painting, but it was ours.

I went inside and took a piece of paper from my kitchen and uncapped a marker. I wrote in the paper, A tribute to the chaotic way you've made my life more colorful. I thought for a second about what to say next.

Look at the beautiful little mess we created

I taped the paper to the back of the canvas and let it dry while I showered off all of the paint I got on myself. After I spent too long doing my hair and deciding what clothes I should wear, I left the house.

I put the painting in a bag so it wouldn't get ruined. I drove to Emma's house and placed our portrait outside of her door. After a second of waiting, I put my car in gear and left for school. 

I looked for Emma all morning. I passed around people in the halls and walked into her first period classroom. I couldn't find her anywhere, so I ended up going to class. Either way, it's in her style to show up late.

When I walked into the classroom, my US History teacher, Mr. Harriet, started class in the same monotone voice he always did.

"Alright class," he bellowed. "Today we're learning about the Civil War."

He was out of breath before he got to the lectern at the front of class. I started drawing. It usually took him half the class to even get started on the lecture, so I learned to take advantage of it. Halfway through the ten minutes it usually takes him to figure out where he stored his slideshow, he got a call from the attendance office. He said his okay's and mhm's and then hung up the phone.