I scurried through the hallways of my house, sliding in my socks like a dog on tiles. Slipping and sliding into wall after wall as I rushed for the staircase. Skipping step after step, I was one mistake from a broken ankle. I turned the corner and grabbed the door opening it just in-time for the mailman.
"Is it here!"
He flipped through envelope after envelope before finally reaching my family's mail and he handed me a letter. A shiny white letter with a red wax stamp. Straight out of Harry Potter.
"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"You're welcome, Nate. I hope the news is to your liking."
"Yes! I hope it will be too."
I closed the door and called for my mom who ran over to me and put her hand on my shoulder.
As my nimble fingers maneuvered around the letter, reading the name and imprints on the letter.
School of the Art Institute of Chicago
After reading that seal out loud, it seemed surreal.
I would be leaving home.
I would be gone, far away at college in another state– in Chicago!
I lifted the seal of the letter and read the contents of the letter to my mom.
"Hello Nick Nate James! We, at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, are glad to notify you that, after deep examination and analysis, you have been accepted to our school. Due to your form of application and the date at which you applied; you will be expected to be in Chicago living near campus by August 15th, 2023."
My mom looked at me with gleaming eyes and gasped, putting her hand over her mouth letting out a faint squeal.
"Honey!" She embraced me and started to squeeze me and jump up and down, "I'm so proud of you!"
She started to tear up and I had to wipe her eyes.
"Mom, what's wrong?"
"I'm just… I'm so happy… to see the day my boy is going to college. And not just that but a high-class school… I'm so proud of you. I– I'm so happy to see that after everything… day after day… you keep standing… you keep walking forward… you kept living. I'm so glad you are here. I'm so glad I made you! I was always so afraid it might've been a bad thing, having a child so early… I thought I might be a terrible mother but…"
"Of course, you're not a terrible mother! You're…" My voice broke and my eyes became glassy as a few tears streamed out of the crevices of my eye corners, "You're the best mom I could've hoped for. Without you… I never would've been where I am now."
I thought back to all the times in my childhood that my mom helped me. Comforting me night after night.
If I had a bad dream, she gave up a portion of her bed to me.
If I had a bad day at school, she talked me through it and made it better.
Day after day… year after year… even small things… There's one thing I never had to question in life.
One statement that she always said.
"I love you!"
She wrapped her arms around me even more and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek before resting her head against my chest.
"Thank you, mom. I love you."
She smiled.
"You finally said it."
"Yeah." I said with a chuckle.
"What did you say again? It's embarrassing? You're too old? Something along those lines, right?"
"Oh, shut up. You're never too old to love someone."
"Yeah… you're right."
If there was one thing I'd learned over this year, it should've been that. No matter how old, how reclusive, how introverted, scared, misunderstood, unappreciated and devalued you may see yourself, it's never too late for love.
* * *
The date was July 30th, 2023. 6 days before my 18th birthday. It had been 359 days since I first met Emma. It's been 10 weeks since she passed.
I'd come to terms with it for the most part. I still grieved but… after I had that encounter with her… I don't know it just– It was like I gained a sense of clarity. I realized that she wanted me to keep living.
She knew that she might die.
She also knew that if that happened, it would devastate me.
I don't blame her… y'know for not telling me. I don't but… no matter how much time passes, I think I'll always feel a little responsible.
To think of it… there's one thing I've got to do before I get full closure.
Something I made– just for her– that she never even got to see.
A work that took months to complete.
My painting– no, Her painting.
The painting for Emma.
I recently was able to pick it back up after turning it in for college admission. They had it in a gallery… a room full of paintings and sculptures. It was like a world I have never seen. Every wall was lined with works of art from a bunch of kids the same age as me. My painting was front and center. On a wall of its own, the painting was mounted and next to a name plate with a description.
I looked at the nameplate, "Lovely Despair: The Color of You by Nick James" is what it read. It had a description as well. "This painting depicts the final act of love and the beauty that could." Short and simple.
When the board asked me what I thought the painting represented and what my vision was I was almost unable to answer.
"I think it… I think it depicts the love between two people. Y'know, recently I… I made an alteration to this before delivering this to you. Y-you see… those eyes? W-well, they were always there. Looking over the piece like an angel… like a guardian of love. They are the eyes of the angel that hangs over the top of the piece. Those are her eyes, expanded and removed, all seeing and all knowing. But… they didn't always cry. Almost 3 months ago… my… My girlfriend died. The person I made this piece for… she was taken from me. It left me… empty… aimless. Before retreating into my room to die, I wanted to leave on last 'fuck you' to the world. I drew the tears of a lover over the eyes of the loved. As you can see, this is a multilayered painting. On the base, there is watercolor and pencil. Above that is the thick oil paint you see. The painting has layers, just like people. There is a basic, thin layer that shows only the essentials. Then a tad bit of color to give it a personality. But over that, there's layers and layers of oil. Thick covered layers. There's so much that from the side, the painting protrudes from the canvas. Almost a half inch of oil paint sticks out, adding depth. Adding layers. Adding the memories and the time spent. Adding the hugs and songs sung together. The kisses and nights. All of it. Every layer of love. And then the final layer. The tears. The end. The end of the love. The end of life. That was the end of it. I thought that. When I hastily threw on those tears as a final goodbye, I thought my life might be over. I regressed. Months of therapy. Months of happy memories. I threw them out. I acted like every bit of happiness she gave me meant nothing now that she was gone. I was wrong. I was so, so, so wrong. She left me those memories as a gift. She left me everything she had. She left me her love. So, while at first, those tears were drawn to cut off my life and show that I had nothing left, now I saw another meaning. I saw that she… she gave me those good memories… but she also gave me her feelings. She gave me her tears. Those tears that stain the painting- unable to ever be removed. Those tears mean everything. Those tears mean love. Those tears mean hate. Those tears mean that even when you're all alone and no one is around and you cry and you cry and you cry, there is always someone out there that loves you. That was a lesson that I think she was always trying to teach me. In life and death. So, I wanted to leave this painting in memory of her. I wanted to give it to her mother… as a gift. I wanted to finally be able to thank her– to thank Emma. Those tears mean thank you. Those tears mean goodbye. Through all the thick layers of colored oil paints that show a sky. Through the eyes of love. Through the tears. That painting… that's one of a kind. So, while I am in front of you, with the painting here… I want to add one last addition. You see these clouds at the bottom?"
I grabbed a brush from my back pocket and opened the can of paint I brought with me. I dipped my brush and swiped it over the painting, creating a smile. I added details such as lips and dimples, but didn't fill it in. A black smile, right over the purple, pink, and blue hues of that sky. Contrasting the colorful and detailed eyes above, and the intricate detail on the angel above those– even compared to the clouds that laid as a base for the entire piece creating its beauty– the lips that now occupied the bottom of the canvas were raw. They showed a deep look into the true meaning of the painting. I could notice that it resonated with them, they all looked at me in awe. Even after I told them how many months and hours, I put into perfecting that piece, scrapping over, and over, and over, and over, canvas after canvas. They still accepted my choice to draw over the painting.
After that, one of the people pulled me to the side and asked me a question.
"Nick… why?"
"I thought it was rather obvious."
"I'm asking, why are you able to stand so proud– so happily– even after everything has happened to you? Even after losing your love?"
"Sir, I never lost her. She's right here."
I pointed at the painting.
"Oh… I suppose you're right. Nick, do you think you… you could make a memorial piece for me?"
"A memorial piece?"
"I… I don't know if you're able to or anything, but… this painting. That painting is art. That painting is art. My… my daughter… she recently died and… I…"
His voice broke and I could see the tears welling up in his eyes.
"I get it, sir. Yeah… yeah, I'll do it."
A few months later into my freshman year I completed his request.
I became known around campus as "Love's Mirror."
I like that name.
[August 5th, 2024]
* * *
Nate's Birthday