Crash Into Me | ✓

three

The backyard shed had been my aunt's favorite part of the house when she bought it. Not for what it was, but for what she could turn it into - a makeshift art studio where she could get paint all over the walls and not feel bad about it.

Fuzzy music from her record player carried through the air as I walked out onto the back deck, and I followed the faint sound of Stevie Nicks' voice crooning out some soft love ballad to the half-open doors of the shed. Aunt Mel sat on a wicker stool in front of a canvas almost the size of her body.

Blues and greens in glossy oil paint splashed the corners, and she continued to paint the canvas with unwavering flow and elegance. She reached up and painted an aqua blue stroke at the top, then brought her arm down to the other corner and flicked her brush off the edge of the canvas. She was painting the waves, so she moved like one.

"What do you think?" She tilted her head to the side and studied the blank corner of the canvas with intensity. Everything about my Aunt Mel was soft and warm like a summer evening, that is until she had a paintbrush in her hands.

"It's pretty," I said with a shrug. "It's always pretty, Aunt Mel."

She frowned a bit and furiously mixed more blues and greens on a small plastic pallet.

"So I take it from your less than enthused tone that your interview did not go well?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the canvas.

I groaned and lowered myself onto another stool beside her. "It's ridiculous. These magazines and journals want you to have experience, but how could I possibly have eight years of experience for an entry level job?"

Aunt Mel finally looked over at me, and sometimes when the light hit her the right way, I could see bits of my mom in her. The twinkle in her emerald eyes and the mess of hair like honey piled on top of her head mirrored my mother's in the few faded old photographs I had left of her.

"Have a little patience. We've only been here a few weeks," she replied, her voice smooth and milky. She dipped her brush in her mixture and continued with her elaborate stroking. "Have you worked on your book at all?"

"No," I sighed. "This place has sucked all my inspiration dry."

The knot in my throat tightened. Stevie kept singing.

Thunder only happens when it's raining.

"You have to find inspiration elsewhere then. That's part of being a creator - making something out of nothing."

I couldn't contain the groan, and I rubbed my temples with my fingers. "Please spare me your philosophical artist mumbo-jumbo. Besides, this doesn't change the fact that I still need a job. I can't just not work, I've always had a job."

"I know, and I admire your work ethic." She dropped her paintbrush into a glass of water and turned to fully face me. "But maybe you just need a break. There's nothing wrong with that."

"I feel like I can't even afford a break." I rubbed the side of my face, feeling sweat start to collect on my temples from the hot, dense air that hung around. "I'm 22 years old, and I feel like I'm already running out of time to do something. To be something."

Aunt Mel threw a grin my way. "I have an idea that might make you feel better."

She got up from her stool and dragged another large canvas to the wall by the door of the shed.

"Paint balloons?" she asked.

Aunt Mel loved messes, and she was a firm believer that she could produce art from them. We had done it a few times back in Georgia, filling balloons with mixtures of paint, silicone, and water and throwing them at canvases. She pulled a bucket towards us and placed a squishy balloon in my hands. I underhand chucked it at the canvas, and I yelped as it exploded in a mess of green and blue and yellow. She did the same, and paint came sprinkling down on us like rain.