The Painting

Prologue: The Locket - An Locket (Part 3)

Prologue: Part 3

Each year Martha permitted me one box to open, look through, and a single item to take home. She explained that she saw it as "My mother's way to give back to me after she was gone."

I always assumed it was Martha's way of satisfying my constant stream of questions regarding my mother. Although good intentioned the trips never seemed to pacify any of them. The boxes allowed me only a brief one dimensional glimpse into her life. It was as if I was trying to watch a movie through a telescope lense, there was no sound and I had to continue adjusting the focus.

The day of our first trip I requested the box from the bottom of the pile.

"You always go for the most difficult ones don't you?" Martha joked after she reorganized the wilting cardboard.

Hungrily, I tore the flaps open not caring to brush off the thick layer of dust that plumed around me the moment I disturbed it. My chest fluttered with the excitement I felt at the beginning of our journey, but as I laid eyes on the contents of the box my heart dropped for the second time that day. Clothes.

I begged Martha to choose another, but she ignored my plea and sat down on the hard floor with me. After systematically taking each item out of the box, studying them and then refolding them at her side she answered me.

"You take this one." She held up a burgundy jacket with a monogrammed script 'C' and 'E' on the right breast.

"Charlotte had good taste," She winked as she unzipped it. "Maine isn't known for its warm winters and you won't quit growing out of the coats I find you." She teased lightly, repacking the box and returning it to it's place.

I sat on the ground silently staring at the cotton jacket in my lap. This was hers - it had her initials after all. Yet, why was I hesitant to embrace it? I shook my head and slid my arms into the cotton, this is what I had wanted. Some sort of connection to her- any connection. I looked down to see my hands drowning in the material of the sleeves. My body seemed as unsure as my mind on what to do with this new addition. 

It wasn't until I ran the zipper all the way up to my chin that I felt something. It didn't hit me as forcefully as I thought - not a ton of bricks, more like a single foam block straight to the head - but it was there nevertheless. I felt comfort, and something more. Typically when adding layers of clothing I felt security in the warmth, but this time the warmth was not just the form of quelling the goosebumps on my arm or the shiver up my spine. This warmth - and I know it sounds cliché - I felt in my bones. Comfort as if I was being hugged by an invisible force - a force I imagined to be my mother.

-

I wore the jacket almost every day after that. I felt close to her with it on, as if when donning the jacket I was taking on a part of her, her life, her personality. That feeling lasted only until the next year when Martha and I returned to Unit #16. For the next six years I choose pieces of clothing from the boxes. It seemed that the clothing's' connective qualities expired each year - perhaps because they were so worn - and became in need of renewal.

By my teens I amassed a small capsule wardrobe, but I didn't think of it as such. Each piece was tucked away after its year was up. Her clothes seemed more at home stacked neatly in a cardboard box then on an angsty pre-teen.

Then came the paintings, boxes and boxes of bright oil and acrylic works. Landscapes and cityscapes, some framed in simple finished wood while others were left on stretched or rolled canvases. All had odd names scribbled on the frame or canvas back. They captivated me. That was the first time I felt I actually gained something, a bit of information I could attach myself to.

She was a painter.

I took home her supplies and tried to mimic her works. It didn't go over well. My strokes were too thick in some places and too thin in others, I was totally unable to replicate her ability. She was at ease when she painted while I was tense, intent on capturing every detail. Leaving no stone real or fictional unturned.

The first painting I ever took out of the storage unit was on Martha and I's last visit to Unit #16. My eighteenth birthday was uncharacteristically cold for June weather and the sun hid behind a mass of gray clouds. The air was thick between us as Martha and I walked to the back of the lot. 

My feet dragged on the asphalt and the toes of my shoes stuck in the unfilled cracks as we continued. Martha took my hand just as she had on our first trip. As much as I felt protective of my mother and Unit #16 I was thankful Martha was there. Her hair had turned completely gray and even though it was obvious the braid did nothing to hide it she continued to wear it.

In the past I had always felt some suspense leading up to our trip. Some excitement that today could be the day where I open the box with all the answers- even the ones I wasn't looking for. Today, however, picturing the singular unopened box I couldn't seem to get my hopes up, in fact they sunk with every step I took. 

This was the end of my connection with my mother. Of course Unit #16 would still be there and her belongings weren't about to sprout feet and walk away, but the connection was fading - or at least it wouldn't be developing. I would be left standing on the landing of a stair case, knowing there was another floor - heck maybe even another ten- that I had no idea how to get to.

Martha and I sat criss-cross opposite each other, the box between us. The concrete platform was slightly cold and I shifted to position my light rain jacket under my bottom. The row of already opened boxes sat to our side patiently waiting for the last one to join their ranks. We were both silent as my hands hovered over the cardboard, My Mother's Last Gift to Me. Martha noticed my hesitation and placed her hand overtop of mine briefly before drawing it away. This time I carefully brushed away the dust before unfolding the top.

Inside were three photo albums and another frame that lay facedown. My mind sat blank and I sucked in a breath as I laid the albums out before us. Each album was identical in shape and size, just big enough to fit one photo per page. A small cutout meant for a wallet sized picture numbered them one through three.

Before this day I had seen only two photos of my mother. The first was a photocopy in the file Martha kept in her office, and the other I kept in an embroidered purse my first foster family let me pick out at a garage sale. She was smiling in both of them, but not a laughing smile, a simple indulgent smile. Her mouth was closed, lips slightly pursed as if she had just been reminded of a warm feeling.

When I was young, I spent hours in the mirror hoping that I would look exactly like her. I did in a way, but not as much as I had hoped. My mother's hair was a deep brown that cascaded down her shoulder in a loose braid, and the same deep brown colored eyes that stared contently at the camera. She had an aura of calm about her that I lacked entirely.

I smoothed over a strand of my light brown hair that left the bun I twisted in the car with nervous hands. I reached into the box again and pulled out the frame. Martha pushed the box away as I flipped it over and lay it above the albums. The frame just barely connected with the ground when I saw it - or rather her.

- 

Oh! Who do you think is captured within the frame ? 

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