I wake up at the sound of two voices roaring at each other. The waves of anger are muffled by the closed doors.The slight Meru accent from its feminine beholder quakes and shudders as the masculine voice waves over her.
My heart shakes a bit.
Next to me Mufasa curls up into a ball and slowly snores.I stare at him impassively, hoping that he doesnt wake up.The soft dark blue in the room shadows him.
I stare at his soft sun kissed skin, and a mass of sleek black strands in disarray on his little head.Behind his closed eyelids, I knew lay beautiful hazel eyes, speckled with browns and greens.
I frown. Of his seven years in this house he weeps at my mother's own sorrows. I wonder when he will get used to it but I realise in this world;
some adapt and other's don't.
Some flowers bloom while some wilt.
I stretch as I sit up, careful not to wake him up.I rub the crust in my eyes and don't bother to wash up in the bathroom. Instead I make my way to the windowed double doors that lead onto the small balcony. I step out carefully, beneath me the metallic floor that was made by father creaks.
I softly close the doors and sit at the small stool placed in front of the canvas. Above me a canopy shades my work from natural disaster.
The morning is cool and I curse myself for wearing a vest and kikoys.
My cleaned paintbrush lay on the floor and I quickly open tubes of paint and splash them on my painting palette.
I can still hear the sobs of my mother but the sound drones out of my ears as my lips fall apart slowly.Soft winds sweep against the hairs on my bare arms and goosebumps form on my tattoo written "Mother"
I look up and hold my breathe at the sight.From the east, the sun came out from hiding.I blink once, taking in the pink sunrise. The sky is fluffed with dispersing dark clouds and the sky paints itself in yellow and purples.The sun gives off a sharp yellow glow against the clouds and the yellow ball steadily rises. The white antique looking apartments around me are painted with the same glow.
I'm in awe and soon my arms start to move myself in robotic motions. My hands find the paintbrush and I hold it delicately, the way mother held me when I was younger.
My hands deep the brush in the paint and I loose myself. The brush becomes part of me as if It were an extension of my limbs.
The sensation if brushing each stroke becomes familiar and the sun I was drawing starts to breathe.I shortly pray for the rays to shine in my mother's soul.
" Shut up and draw,"
Selah whispers in my ear.
I paint the only traces of beauty in my life.
-Mufasa
