May [H.S]

35

Magnolia
•••

Mieux vaut tard que jamais.

The soft beams of the sun flared down onto my freckled forearms, accentuating the light dusting of blonde hairs that trailed, seen between the tattoos. The heat—that soft steady warmth that settles there fills the cavity in my chest, an outpour of liquid gold. It was at that point in the day when the sky started to shift in color, mimicking the flares that cut through the outer bits of the atmosphere. A spiraling concoction of baby blues, ripe apricot, and coral. I squinted against the solar disturbance, carefully unraveling my sunnies from the strands of my bangs before I flick them down and over the bridge of my nose, with a quick ruffle they are in place. Reaching over into the passenger's seat, I shuffle through my purse and find the engraved metal compact mirror.

I draw my tongue over the smudged lip liner drawn around my lips, dabbing the unruly bits of gloss that fought against the breeze on the way over here. My hand finds the somewhat grungy feeling of the inside of my purse again, without looking I find what I need. Fumbling with the tube of gloss, I use the backmost of my teeth to fish the cap off before I apply too much to the space of my lips. The amber-toned irises stare back at me, and I pucker away the stickiness.

As a result of the rainy forecast's departure, I had the top taken off of my Mercedes and spent the better half of my week in the sun, down the coast with a scarf tied around my head, pretending that I was someone I'm not–anyone on this earth but Magnolia Finnely.

The reliable beams of the sun healed some sick and festering part of me that lingered after the funeral, the wind mended my aching heart and the feeling of the balmy sand against my bare legs restored that long-gone zest for life. I shielded myself from the uneasy feeling that wanted to knock the wind out of me the moment I drove past the welcome to Oregon sign. I told myself that even though things were shit and that the pain in my chest still resided there that I didn't need to become infatuated with feeling sorry for myself.

I hadn't decided whether this fresh mindset was a facade yet or not, if I was just tricking myself into thinking that I felt a little smidge sunnier–it didn't matter if it was all the work of my imagination trying to pull me out of a funk—I concluded that real or not real I would lean into it and maybe it would result in something healthy.

With my avoidance of public places, the fallback from the charity night was minimal. When I did wind up at the resort for practice, people made a point to avoid eye contact with me–fleeing like mice. With sweat lining my hair, down my back, and a stiff aching in my muscles, I didn't have the energy in me to put on a front. The extent I could muster most of the time was a blank aloof stare, that felt much more like me than the some meek avoidance of eye contact–if they wanted to gawk I would make it known that I saw them.

That was until one of the board members that helped me plan the charity event ran into me on the way out of practice one rainy morning–quite literally, as we were going in opposite directions. I was desperate to make it to my car without anyone noticing. She'd knocked my duffle back right from my sore shoulder, and I, her coffee. Naturally, it went everywhere.

I caught the glossed over look in her eyes as she realized it was me probably reliving me on that stage with my rocks glass and inappropriate need to run my mouth. I didn't know what came over me when I burst into tears upon seeing her latte all over the foyer floor and my grey sweatshirt–the damage controlling part of me sewn into my genetics like a patch on leather. Apologies came from between my lips profusely. A sort of maternal instinct kicked in and she rushed to assure me everything was okay. Once she'd laid gentle hands on my shoulders the waterworks turned into that of a tropical cyclone's downfall, piquing the attention of any and everyone.