The last comprehensible dream I’d ever have again of Landon was at the end of the year during the month of December, set in a track and field area where a race was being held.
Another race huh, I thought. I was sure I’d be running again. There was no doubt about it.
He bent down to reach my height. “The race is over,” he whispered.
A short shiver and a slight tingle occupied my mind. I felt the warmth of his breath. My eyes shut for a second and when they opened, I gained back my focus. I searched the area with my eyes; I hadn’t heard the winner of the race.
“Come on, Georgie!” Called a voice I hadn’t heard in so long.
“Go ahead,” Landon egged me on, his head nodding forward.
I took a surprising step as he had intended me to.
The owner of the familiar voice led me away through booths and stalls propped up for the event. Was this a faire? She didn’t speak, and I just followed.
I thought at the time, each booth seemed unique despite the blurry scenes whizzing by me. Nothing registered in complete detail. It wasn’t until we arrived by the art booth did my surroundings sharpen.
“Is this yours?” Landon, now seated on the other side of the booth, grinned as he handed me a large black-bound sketchbook.
I shook my head, “no.”
“Look inside,” I thought I heard him say when he placed it in my hands.
“I didn’t think you’d return,” Father Peter beckoned me into his office upon my return the August of my twenty-fourth birthday.
“I didn’t think so either, Father.”
We both took our usual seat as Mother Ani pulled the cream-dyed curtains open. It was early in the morning that my flight arrived, and Danny had come to pick me up. All were the usual thing.
“I’ve received your latest letter. I’m glad you’re feeling better. So, what brings you back?”
I scooted to the edge of the armchair, “I wanted to paint in peace.”
Mother Ani let out a delighted laugh, “finally.”
I’d been drawing, that was true. I’d been painting to bide my time, but none of it had been particularly fun. I don’t know how else to explain it.
When I first started painting, I was four, and it was with Gemma. She taught me to have fun when it came to art. We drew stupid things and crafted them with clay. We did things for fun. I don’t know when art stopped being fun and became a means of escape. I want to feel at peace when I paint.
I want to be four again before the jealousy and anger manifested themselves within my soul.
“I was thinking, maybe I can continue my second year.”
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