𝐍𝐲𝐱 (𝘨𝘹𝘨)

I - funeral

This chapter is a bit depressing, but it introduces a lot of the setting :).
Victoria Valentín

I always knew death was imminent and upsetting, but I never thought it would happen to me; I never thought that I would be the one to suffer through the effects of death (at least, not so soon).

My parents were a pair of beautiful human beings who owned a few non-for-profit organizations and small artisan establishments in New York City. It was just us three in a two-bedroom apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan during the year, us and lentil soup and maté (a bitter Argentinian tea) and Sol (the cat).

I'm pretty sure I disassociated at the funeral, I really don't remember much. I remember the colors, though. It was a deep grey, a cool brown, and a leafy green. And, wait, now I remember a few things. It was humid and damp and dark; common rain residues. The trees were steeped and seemed to have been curling to attempt a gory consolation. I remember my aunt, too, because she told me to go to Lila with her and live there.

Lila is a beautiful house near a coast, overlooking the water. I've been to Lila a few times and it has always been extremely comforting. The smell of incense and freshly steeped maté and the humidity reminds me of Argentina, the country that my parents grew up in. Lila, although immense in size, never seemed intimidating. Perhaps it is the fact that it is surrounded by sunflowers and green plants and always opens it's windows. Perhaps it is also the fact that it used to be inhabited by a sapphic couple during the early 1900s, which has always been a story that interested me.

I pity my Tía (aunt) Irene a bit. Five months ago, I arrived at Lila with her. We did a road trip in her vintage red convertible, which always suited her very much, and I would've been enjoying it if I was not so sensitive. I am gloomy mostly nowadays. There are moments, of course, when Tía Irene would convince me to bake some cookies with her or that I would distract myself with an immersive book or do a master study of my favorite Van Gogh paintings in the high-ceiling art room. I will have to admit that it was worse earlier this year, when I had just arrived. I would sit in my room and sob, curled up in my bed, missing the smell of my mothers soft perfume or my dad's colar; and I would hear Irene's gentle knocking on the wooden door. I pity her, not only because she lost her brother and best friend, but because she lost me (at least, for some time) too. I am getting better though, at least that's what Irene says.

I try to recall the funeral every so often. It's probably because I feel guilty that I wasn't aware of my surroundings during it. I know that I was silently crying the whole time, behind a black veil and a black dress and black gloves and black shoes and a yellow sunflower pin above my left breast. I think the sunflower pin absorbed some of my energy, permanently, that day.

Today, I am trying to recall the funeral in order to sketch some of my sadness away. My ears pick up on the strokes the pencil makes on the fern paper and my mind stops racing. I look up and see my aunt knitting in her rocking chair and I think I'm getting better, like she said.

It is a Wednesday and I am drinking maté while painting sunflowers in the art room. Tía Irene calls it the art room because it's where she does her sewing and embroidery and pottery. I am mixing some vibrant yellows and oranges, which puts me automatically in a good mood, to paint the petals of the sunflowers. I can hear the gentle hum of Irene's sewing machine behind me and the gentle ocean breeze coming from the tall, open windows.

I start to hum a tune and put down my paint brush. I hum a little stronger in approval. Soon, I'm jumping up and down at the sight of my painting.

"Irene, look!" I say, turning to her. I can subtly make out a wink of her eye and give her a small smile.

I glance at my aunt for a moment. Her soft, tall figure is hunched over while she's creating. She has curly hair, like me, except it is brown and gray and white, with age. Her eyes are an intimidating green and are covered by her glasses and eyelashes while she works.

I turn back around to my painting and think about how my parents would react to the painting. She would probably tell me that I've improved, and my dad would tell me that I graduated school early to paint sunflowers.

I got a little sad then, but I was remembering the good things. I am getting better, like Irene said.

A/N : van gogh is such a big inspiration and his paintings give me such a beautiful feeling idk