Page 66 of In the Dust

Shimmeringlights dangle overhead as we bring the dishes to the long wooden table in the backyard. The mosquitos are gone, thank God, and we wanted to look at the pasture. What we’ve worked so hard for all these months.

The table is filled to the brim with casserole dishes and trays of meats. But the best part is the people surrounding the table.

Dad, Grandpa, Colton, Harper, Jackson. All of my people, right here.

Grandpa raises his glass of sweet tea. “Thank you kids for a successful harvest and helping this old man out.” His eyes pan to me. “And to Dixie for knowing you could always come home.”

Dad raises his glass. “Happy birthday, Dixie May.” He smiles. “To Dixie.”

They all follow, and I blush under the compliments as I pour a drink for myself from the punch Colton and Jackson made. Honestly, I should be raising my glass to them. “Thank you for pretending like I never left.” I grin from ear to ear, taking a sip. My eyes widen as I try not to spit out the horrible concoction; it tastes like bug spray and gasoline.

We dig in, and before Colton finishes his meal, he’s already stolen one of the pies I made, and he’s eating it whole with a fork.

We continue laughing, drinking our terrible punch, and filling up our bellies as the sun sets.

* * *

I thinkthe dinner we had a few nights ago lifted my spirits; it helped me to reconnect even more with this little town and the people in it. I know it’s changed something in me because I keep finding myself in my mom’s studio.

It’s become more of a welcoming space as opposed to a room full of hurt and too many memories. I can breathe in here and not be consumed with feelings of despair.

Without warrant, Colton walks me to the door each night, leaving me with a sweet kiss. “Good night, Dix,” he says before heading home. He never pushes to come inside, knowing that it’s something I need to do on my own.

I watch him walk off, admiring the view for a few moments before entering the studio.

I stare at the ultramarine and turquoise mixed background, not sure of what I want to paint. I haven’t picked up a brush since painting the striking background. I guess I can start by gathering more paint.

I take a deep breath in through my nose, exhaling slowly through my mouth. I try to clear my mind of all thoughts. Just paint; it doesn’t matter what, just pick up a brush.

And that’s what I do.

I open a few acrylics, mixing white, yellow, and brown. I use a thicker brush to start applying the sandy beige color to the canvas. I let my hand take the lead, guiding my brush around.

I add a few drops of yellow to the palette with a touch more of blue and red. Then I wipe my knife clean before blending the colors together, mixing until I have a chocolatey brown. I chew on the inside of my cheek and squint my eyes. It’s not dark enough, so I add a drop of black and begin mixing again.

Perfect. I dab my brush into the paint and smear it in swirls beside the beige area until I’m satisfied with the outcome. It’s wild and textured. I add a few drops of white paint to the brown and mix again. I take a smaller brush with a finer tip and add a few highlights to the darker swirls.

I let myself get lost, allowing creativity to flow through my hands. Before I know it, I’m almost done with my creation. I sit back on the bench, realization dawning on me. Now I understand why I made a blue background.

It was her favorite color, my mom’s favorite color.

The infinite swirls of chestnut hair with highlights, the scattered freckles adorning soft cheeks. The warm, honey-brown eyes, and endless beauty.

I painted an angel, or so I thought.

I painted my mother.

* * *

The following night,Colton and I are standing at the door of my mom’s studio once again. Except this time, I have a change of plans.

“I want to show you something,” I tell him.

He nods his head. “Okay, after you.” He reaches for the handle, letting me walk inside first.

I try to cover his eyes with my hands. “This isn’t working. Cover your eyes.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stifles a laugh.

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