everchanging

2

Mom gave me a collection of pictures four days before my birthday. The first was a polaroid of two-year-old me, smiling and clutching a stuffed bear. That bear had been my favorite until it began to fall apart. Maybe it was somewhere in the house, but I doubted it. The second was a picture of our happy family surrounded by trees. Arms around each other with big, cheesy smiles painted on our faces. On the back, written in cursive was Oregon, Uncle T going away party. The third was a picture of me at an art show, surrounded by portraits. I was striking a pose, but I was looking at something behind the camera. I wondered what had caught my attention. She's growing up. Does she take after the gifted artist or the natural-born writer?  Haha ;) 

The final, the fourth, made my heart swell. A picture of me, handpainted, made up of a thousand paint drops, a million brush strokes. 

It was me. 

She had captured every detail of my face perfectly, turned me into a beautiful model. A subject. I traced a finger over my face, the soft arches of my eyebrows, my slightly uneven lips, the hint of a smile in my eyes. Like I was thinking of a joke I could tell.

I clutched the portrait tightly in my hand, scared to let go. Tears were pooling in the corner of my eyes, threatening to spill over. I forced them go to away. I wouldn't dare mess this up. When had she done this? I was always around her, watching her paint. I tried to be by her side 24/7. Most of the time. She must have stayed up late to do such a thing. When I had fallen asleep. 

The mere thought of that made the tears spill over, rolling towards the bottom of my chin. It was the best present I had ever received in my life. My first portrait from my mother. At the bottom, written in black, was, Caroline. Thirteen. 

Caroline. The name I was given at birth, but never fully embraced. To everyone else, I was only Cara. Sweet Cara, baby Cara, give me a hug, Cara. I never got to hear the story behind my name. If there even was one. I wondered if Mom had just picked my name out of a book. I was not expected, after all. It was a funny thought. 

My mother was Angelica Hart, named after a great-great-great family member that I had never met. I loved her name, strikingly beautiful with a touch of elegance. I loved Mom. Even though she was chaotic, I loved her very strongly.

I held the painting to my face, taking it all in. I would have to find a frame. 

-

My days passed slowly. I spent my time either walking along the beach with Mom or sitting in the sand making life stories about the people who passed by. Here's Bob, he just escaped from prison and is trying to act normal among everyone. Here's Miranda, she just divorced her husband and came to the beach as part of her reinvention plan.

I even spent my days on the couch watching Dad at the computer. He sometimes told me about his perfect story, even going as far as to ask me what a perfect day was to me. I lied and told him a perfect day was the beach being gloomy. I was ashamed to tell him the truth of my perfect day.

 My birthday came and went. Inside my head, I was greedy. I wanted new clothes, new shoes, new everything. But after a while, I felt guilty and pushed those thoughts out of my head. I wasn't going to get any of that, why bother even thinking about it. It only made me feel worse.

I didn't exactly feel any different. The day I woke up thirteen I was expecting to feel grown up. Or at least feel a little changed. Looking in the mirror, I was the same. My hair was still at an awkward length, a little past my chin. Uneven, of course. My mother was a great artist but a horrible hairdresser.