Issue 11.2 Spring 2016

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Pulverized Beauty

 

Kirsten Bridgemen

 

 

I liked to leave messages in the street here. I don’t mean voodoo hieroglyphics or weird shit like that, but simple pictures representing a myriad of objects in my life. It started when I was nine; I was introduced to the magic of chalk. My mother would buy me a new set every other night as a present for being such an easy kid to take care of. I would then go out into the street and swirl away in shapes and dirt and endless colors while floating on a sea of asphalt. These pastel colors... they were all I had left of mom. And you have no idea how badly I want a storm to come and wash every bit of this dust away.

 

My childhood routine was the same every night:

Mom comes home around six in the evening, and she makes me a box of mac and cheese. Thinking I’d be distracted from eating the mundane noodles, she disappears into her room. After a moment, I sneak down the hall and follow her. Through the cracked door, I see my mother’s silhouette outlined by the dull glow of a single lamp, a lamp that my father bought her. You see he had left us years ago, leaving nothing behind but empty spaces and promises. She stands there, hesitant, lost in the rhythmic routine of setting up her ritual, probably thinking about the way he used to be her gravity.

 

Another minute passes, and she stops her work. Satisfied with the placement of her tools, she whisks away like a dream to the closet to change. I know I don’t have much time, so I do what I do best. On the mahogany desk sits four spotted lines, glowing against the cherry of the wood. One for every year dad’s been gone. As quietly as I can, I scrape two of the lines into the nearby trashcan, take two capsules out from my pocket, and empty their contents carefully where the original line left its traces. I got the pills off the Internet, thinking the plain white powder would be sufficient enough to fulfill its purpose. There’s no way she wisn’t suspicious after all of these years, but she hasn’t said anything to me to suggest otherwise. Once my work is done, I hurry back to my place in the kitchen.

 

Ten minutes later she stumbles out of the room, caressing my head as she drifts by. She grabs her purse, blows me a kiss, and walks out the door. As she shuts the door, the predictable, fresh box of colorful chalk sits on the floor. An unspoken message is always accompanied with the box. Draw me something beautiful...

Now, normally I could draw something simple and elegant with ease, right in front of our house on the cold gravel that she fled upon to wander the blurred streets.

 

But seven years later, after she and I had been doing the same routine, just as we did so long ago, I was unable to draw her anything beautiful when consumed in a life so horrid. I sat on the driveway, watching her go with hands full of empty chalk and hope, crushed by a childhood that only seemed like a nightmare.

 

So when she disappeared for the thousandth time, deepening the distance, I ran into the house and to her room. I flung open the door, shattering my father’s lamp in the process, and approached the tainted desk. I threw open all of the drawers until I found the plastic bag full of her powder. Not knowing where to go from there, I clenched the bag tightly in my hand and headed to the front door. Just as I was about to shut the door, I saw the fucking box of chalk. My eyes were pinned to the shitty cardboard as colors became a messy blur. And I was brought out of my vision only when a single, unwelcome tear fell out of my eye.

 

With a new anger motivating me, I snatched the chalk from its resting place, and marched to the middle of the road. I took the four brightest colors, smashed them to pieces with my foot, and poured the contents of the bag equally into each fluorescent pile. Despite the shaking of my hands, I managed to line up each color into four, perfectly straight lines. Blue for dad, green for mom, pink for me, and orange for the life I wish we could have had. I stood back, caked in pastels, and admired my masterpiece. Satisfied by my work, I stood in the empty road over my art. Every breath came out shaky and the tears became a constant stream flowing down the sides of my face. I stared down the quiet road and awaited my desolate mother to return home. But the thing is that she never did. And I have been waiting for so many nights on this shitty asphalt in this shitty life, hoping that maybe one day she’ll come back. I really hope she likes the beautiful something I have made for her.

 

 

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