Chasing Rainbows

Cloud Busting

Willam and I would find bliss chasing rainbows in children's playgrounds. In a place of child's play, as teenagers we were misfits visiting a foreign land of purity and joy. We were desperate to colour our lives with the red of the swing set, and the green of the grass. We would spend hours immersed in painting ourselves in shades of multi-coloured innocence. Willam and I would chase rainbows in the playground until the clouds gave way to a colourful sky.

When things seemed grim, we would climb stairs and cross bridges like oversized children. We'd squeeze ourselves into colourful slides. The wind would hit me fast, its gusts flowing through my tousled hair as I glided towards the tanbark. We would shriek with an excitement fueled by sweet nostalgia.

Once, from the trampled ground Willam emerged with a pansy. The edges of its white petals were blotched with shades of indigo, and its insides were covered in darkened lines of detail that led towards a golden centre. We shared a moment in awe of its beauty. Then, with delicate hands he placed the flower behind my ear, intertwining its stem with strands of hair.

Willam would chase me around in circles, giggling like a young boy, until eventually we'd find ourselves lying peacefully on the merry go round. Our legs dangled over the edges, and our bodies were touching ever so slightly. The soft delicacy of his skin tingled against mine. Our lips would breathe words of hope, and with our minds we painted pictures of a future together. We were dizzy with excitement. We span until the world around us became a rainbow blur, making us numb to everything but the emotions we shared in that moment.

On occasion, teardrops would fall from a darkened sky--the universe's attempt to taint our moment of pleasure. But we'd run faster, swing higher, laugh louder. Our hands would only grip tighter, as if our unity somehow calmed the storm. We would dance across the park as raindrops would splatter violently onto the pavement; because we knew that inevitably, the clouds would disappear to reveal the rainbow we'd been chasing-and in that moment everything would be okay.

Eventually we'd run home, and arrive, our clothes soaking wet as a reminder of the fun we'd had. On this day, Willam and I sat side by side on my bed as my mum wandered in and joined us. Our eyes were perched at the painting of my grandmother hanging up on the wall, and I knew my mother would be eager to retell its story.

It was Collingwood, 1990, she would begin. Willam and I had heard the story dozens of times before, but yet she continued to part her lips and bring the painting to life once again.

*

It was Collingwood, 1990. My mum had escaped the wrath of my father a week earlier and in these moments we were drifters; wandering aimlessly with little direction. Mum and I had run to her sister's home for refuge, taking with us the small sums of cash she managed to cluster together. Far away, were our fancy pieces of artwork left hanging on his walls, and our designer clothing left unworn in his closets. Yet, here we were, cramped in my aunt's tiny home.

For a means of distraction, my mother and aunt would take me along with them to browse the markets. With sweaty palms, my mum would hold me close as she guided us through crowds of unfamiliar faces. It had become routine that we did not purchase anything at these stalls, but we would instead ponder over objects we could no longer afford.

On a warm November morning, a pale skinned man with an overgrown beard stuck his head out as we passed by his lonely table.

"Good afternoon ladies, can I interest you in some artwork?" He wondered, in a rehearsed voice. My aunt was quick to shake her head in response as she wandered ahead, leaving us in the company of this stranger.

"How much?" Mum questioned, not wanting to seem impolite.

"For you, only a couple of dollars for a rough sketch." He offered, his body language conveying an air of desperation. I watched my mother hesitate, as her eyes wandered over the few pieces of armature art in his stall. It was by no comparison up to the standard of art we had grown accustomed to, but there was something rustic and personal about it, so Mum agreed.

"Is there anything in particular you want me to sketch?" He asked. Mum shook her head. I noticed his eyes scan over me, and then over my mother as he contemplated us in search of inspiration. Finally, his troubled eyes returned to his paper, and after a few minutes of careful sketching he handed her a picture of a soft and delicate blue flower that looked as if it had been trampled upon. An air of confusion washed over my mother's face as she viewed it, but she took the sketch regardless, fumbling amongst her belongings to scrounge some change for the mysterious artist.

Over the coming weeks, I found myself often back in the company of this man, who I came to learn was named Anthony. My mum had built up a collection of his sketches that included, animals, scenery, and even beautiful brown people. Sometimes I'd find his pictures on coffee tables, or stuck onto the bathroom mirror, but generally Mum carried them around with her, crumpled in her purse.

I admired the way Anthony managed to gift us tangible evidence of life's beauty in exchange for just a few dollars. Sometimes Mum would even buy him coffee in exchange for a picture scribbled on the back of a napkin. I found it interesting to watch the way this gifting of art managed to create an odd, but beautiful bond between them.

After some time, he told Mum he wanted to paint her something more elaborate-free of charge. So we met up in the park on a cold day, after the rain had faded and the sun was beginning to shine through clusters of darkened clouds. A rainbow was emerging. I watched my mum pose subtly, as Anthony observed her, his brushes moving swiftly across the canvas. I remember thinking that she looked as if she was completely at peace in that moment; as Anthony's eyes would run softly over her body and his arms would move vividly in excitement.

When Anthony was finished, he handed my mother the colourful canvas, and she cried sweet tears of joy as she immersed herself in its simplistic beauty. He comforted her as tears fell softly from her eyes, and with a hug and nod of his head, he said his final farewell.

*

As my mother finished her story, her voice had become soft, and I noticed tears begin to well up in her eyes. I held her tightly as my eyes washed over my grandmother's painting-a symbol of hope that was now mine to embrace. The light purple bruises on my grandmother's dark skin appeared only faintly, but she was still smiling. I noticed the way the ecstasy in her smile radiated off of the wall, filling my bedroom with an aura of happiness. Behind this bright face, were rainbow swirls of textured paint that emitted a familiar bliss.

I suppose that for my grandmother, Anthony allowed her to chase rainbows in the aftermath of her storm. To Anthony, perhaps my grandmother was a light that sent colours dancing across his canvas. His kindness granted her the ability to experience her life in colour again after being cursed to see through the grey of the clouds. And as she was soaking wet from the dampness of the rain, she was able to look up at her rainbow, and be reminded that everything was going to be okay.