Page 64 of In the Dust

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Colton didn’t stay the night last night. Said he had some things he needed to take care of early in the morning. I suspect it had something to do with him wanting me and the girls to have my room for the night, but my birthday is this weekend so that may be a part of it too.

I slept like a log with G and Harper after we stayed up all night around the bonfire and then moved into my room and chatted about boys until two in the morning like we were in middle school again.

I hugged Gina’s neck before she left at six this morning to catch an early flight back to the city, and once again, she promised to come visit soon.

She sent me one last offer for my mom’s painting to be showcased in her studio, but fear stopped that from happening. If even a microscopic scratch was made on that canvas, I don’t think I’d ever be able to forgive myself.

The quiet pasture is a good place to think. I feel bad to admit it, but when I told G bye, I was relieved. Not relieved because she was leaving; I miss her already! But because I’m not going back to the city. It would be a great place to visit, maybe to even bring Colton too.

But it’s not home, and I finally see that.

I peek in to check on Pixie and her baby, seeing they’re doing great. The baby found her legs quickly, and we let them out to run every morning.

After giving them some time to graze the pasture, I find myself walking into the studio as the sun breaks the horizon, blanketing everything in its golden light.

What shocks me more is how I’m carefully moving mom’s painting to the easel behind it and I’m pulling a fresh one from the stack. What are you doing?

Painting, I decide as I open the dusty cabinet and pull out a few tubes of acrylic. I’m so glad this little shed is climate controlled, or else these paintings and all of her things would either be spoiled or ruined. But whoever cleans this room skips the inside of the cabinet. There are cobwebs and dust, which I need to clean, but it’s hard.

The webs are a reminder of things untouched for a long period of time, a reminder that she is no longer in her apron, dancing in here. Music blaring and wild hair bouncing as she put brush to canvas and dripped her creativity around it.

While I was in the city, it was easy to pretend she was in here. Easy to run from the pain that my dad and grandpa were facing every day. I never gave myself proper time to grieve.

Maybe this is how I will grieve.

I grab her old wooden palette and a knife and mix the most stunning shade of blue; it reminds me of Mom.

I dip my brush with shaking hands and press it into the palette before bringing it to the canvas. I swipe and twirl and run the horse hairs over the fabric until there’s a nice gradient background.

Another thing about my mom was she hated the brushes at the art stores, so she always made her own from one of the horses in the stables. It’s a craft she taught me, but one I've never tried myself. Maybe I should soon?

I step back to look at my work, not having gotten far but also not giving up before I started.

With a brush in hand, I head back inside the house. Grandpa is up, stirring honey into a cup of coffee. I don’t mention it because it’s something I’ve never seen him do. But I think it’s all due to him missing me.

I drop the brush into the sink and wrap my arms around his neck. “I love you,” I sing.

“I love you too, Dixie May.” For as long as I can remember, when he smiles, decades of laughter shape his face.

I walk over to the sink and run some water over the bristles.

“You painted?” he asks, standing over me.

“I did.” I grin.

He doesn't make a big deal out of it, but I don't miss the wide grin on his face. “I’d love to see it.”

I wave him off. “It’s just one color, a background. I don’t really know where I’m going with it,” I ramble.

He nods, setting down his mug. “What do you want to do today?” he asks.

“Umm.” I ponder this for a second, but I think our day is already decided for us. That’s how farm life works. “I’ve got to feed the animals,” I tell him, holding my finger up when I remember. “Oh! And there’s a patch of dirt where I need to plant some seed.” More things ping in my mind. “Stables need hay.”

He places his hand over mine, shutting me up. “How about we let the kid down the street, the Ferguson boy, handle all that today?”

“I’m listening.” I smile. A day off would be nice. But I know what this is: a successful harvest meal. By tonight, we’ll be lined up buffet style digging into delicious meats and sides. Some things never change, and like clockwork every year, he creates a feast.

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