In God We Trust

Chapter 1 THE CHANGE

        In the late April afternoon, I laid on the grass, staring transfixed at the setting sun. Its hues like a painter's mixture of orange, red, lilac, and indigo warmed the small neighborhood. Little kids are getting their last minute of fun in the sun before dinner beckons. A moving van drove past me and parked at the old Freeman's house. Flocks of birds are flying home in the sky.

       As the sun slowly hid behind the horizon, I shivered from the loss of warmth and continued the last shadings on my drawing.

       It was a portrait of my mom. She has a heart-shaped face which is balanced with her dark almond eyes and thick eyelashes. The face is framed with long black curls. The lips are thin and I added a shadow of a smile that my mother always seemed to have.

       Strangers sometimes assumed we were sisters.

       I admit I get most of my traits from my mother. My dad gave me his quick wits and artistic abilities among other things. I lightly touched her face as if my touch alone would bring her back from the dead.

       A breeze started picking up, and I tied my auburn hair to keep it out of my face. Suddenly, the gentle breeze turned into a fleeting wind storm and blew my drawing to the street. It flew higher yet higher until it landed on one of the neighbor's roof. I groaned out loud, dreading having to get up, walking across the road, and making conversation with another human being. I sighed with finally good reasoning and started to approach the direction of the dull yellow-painted house.

       As if to prove a point, the breeze blew harder and the drawing was lost in the sky. Chasing after it would be useless.

       "Well, there went forty minutes of my life," I muttered, snatching up my sketchbook and drawing tools. I shouldn't have ripped it off the sketchbook.

       My stomach growled in agreement. I entered through the kitchen door and headed for the boxes of pizzas stored in the fridge. My mother was usually the cook in my family. Knowing no one would cook dinner for the family anymore, my father thought it was his fatherly duty to bring pizza after work.

       Carrying a box of pizza in my right hand and sketchbook and pencils in the other, I headed for the safety of my domain. After eating three slices of pizza, I tried drawing again.

       It was useless. With a last glance at my work, I crushed it into a ball, tossed it at the full trash can, and heard it join the others on the floor.

       Too physically and mentally tired, I dragged myself to bed and tried escaping in another world, a feat  I used to accomplish easily with books. Lately, I haven't read books in my free time. It was just a weak attempt to avoid the too many painful memories spent with my mother at bookstores or reading in the patio.

       A lot of things has changed. I didn't even bother comprehending the words that swam in my eyes; instead, I closed them as I wished the world away. I had not been my usual happy-go-lucky self lately. I've been rather emotional or grumpy. I just hoped I've kept up the act of being happy.

       As usual, I couldn't get any sleep when I was feeling like this. Tomorrow, April 28th, would mark a year since my mother died. I closed my eyes, but to no avail, I still heard the crash as a drunk driver hit my mother's Prius.

       Filled with too much adrenaline from the memory, I felt like I have to do something, anything. I stood and surveyed my bedroom. I remembered how my mom always told me to clean my room. I can be such a boy sometimes when it comes to my room.

       This time, I picked up the papers on the floor, vacuumed the floor, tidied up my study table, picked the dirty laundry off the floor, and placed the remaining pizza box in the fridge, all without being asked. I wanted to dress nice for my mother tomorrow so I also prepared my outfit.