Eyes on the Wall

Untitled Part 1

I sit unmoving in my vehicle.

The old house still looking as I had remembered.

Ten years seems to have gone by with the snap of a finger.

I watch my mother; unaware of my presence, she dries her single bowl, spoon, and glass, and puts them away in the cupboard.

Those ten years, although fast moving for me, have aged her considerably.

The presence and strength my mother once carried seems to have drained out of her, leaving her frail and exhausted.

My heart beats rapidly at the prospect of my next move.

I grab my car's door handle and slowly exit the vehicle.

I stand, facing away from the house, adjusting my Armani suit jacket, and take in a deep breath.

I bend over to the driver's side mirror and flash a smile.

Perfection- I expect nothing less.

Turning on my heel, I walk confidently over to the door and give it a knock.

I wait outside for several minutes, after having knocked twice more.

The air smells so fresh yet aged, due to the fact that the day is cool and springtime is on the horizon, along with all the sheds and buildings opposite the house.

Each boasts of mold, labor, and rotting boards.

I'm studying the landscape so intently, I don't even hear the door open behind me.

"Hello son."

I spin around abruptly, and feel somewhat surprised she recognizes me at all.

Her face looks even older up close than it had when I saw her through the window, and holds no trace of emotion.

However, her eyes sparkle with happiness, I imagine, from my return.

"Mother, I..."

Before I have time to finish saying hello, she wraps her arms around me and hugs me in a tight embrace; tighter than I believed possible.

My arms are pinned to my sides, so I have no choice, but to just stand there awkwardly and let her hug me.

When she lets go and pulls back I straighten my suit jacket and say professionally: "Hello Mother, it's good to see you."

Mother stands with her mouth open, almost reevaluating who's standing at her front door.

"Well, c'mon in. Make yourself at home."

She ushers me inside the small entryway.

I scan the cluttered countertops and the walls and floors laced with dust.

I contemplate taking off my suit jacket, but decide otherwise.

Mother seems to sense my discomfort and trudges up the stairs slowly.

I follow cautiously behind.

"Excuse the mess, I...haven't gotten around to it much lately."

She makes her way into the living room and motions for me to take a seat on the sofa, and then she exits the room.

I remain standing, not wanting to make this visit appear to be the casual one she had anticipated.

It's the first thing I notice.

It's always the first thing anyone notices.

The wall.

Mother has an aged television set sitting in a corner to the right, a dark green, leather recliner opposite the doorway, and left of the doorframe, above the sofa, was the wall.

The wall was painted light brown, but no one would ever comment on the paint choice.

No one ever commented on any of the mismatched furniture either.

I guess no one was ever here to comment anyway.

The wall was covered with newspaper articles; all telling of various events my sister Clementine, my brother Wallace, or I had been involved in.

Spelling bee participant ribbons, B honor roll notices, even a police report from when Clementine drove her car into Mrs. Sweeny's porch and fled the scene.

There's art projects, and our kindergarten graduation photos.

Each of us have multiple photographs on the wall, however; my mother was never one to take traditional snapshots.

In every picture, her finger is covering part of the lens, or one of us has something in our teeth.

There's even one of the three of us kids playing outside in nothing more than our various undergarments.

Clementine and Wallace are donning sagging diapers, and I'm in my favorite pair of Batman underpants.

And in the center of all the mess, a family portrait.

Our only professional picture ever taken, and it can easily be considered trash.

My brother is pulling Clementine's hair, with a devilish grin on his lips, while her bright red face screams bloody murder.

Mother and Dad are holding their hands in front of them in a "we're not ready yet" motion.

And then there's me.

I'm wearing this banana yellow sweater with a ketchup stain running from the collar down the front of my shirt.

And if that's not embarrassing enough, I have a pee stain in front of my khaki pants.

Not only is this portrait undeniably humiliating, but Mother has is framed and blown up to measure three feet by four feet respectfully.

Mother comes back in carrying a tray of an assortment of cookies and two glasses of lemonade.

She brings the tray over to me and insists I take a cookie.

"Umm, no thank you. I'm on a diet, and I'm trying to watch my sugar intake."

She shrugs, places the tray on the floor, grabs one of the glasses of lemonade, and stands next to me to examine the wall.

"I see...you've still managed to keep this going."

Everything about the wall infuriates me, it always has, but I try not to let my emotions show in my voice.

"Why, yes I have! Did you see I added your father's obituary, and your rejection letter from Harvard?"

"Mother, why on earth would you ever display such things? Half the items on this wall are sad or simply humiliating!"

Mother turns and looks at me.

"I see you still don't understand, Son."

"My whole life I know you've just tried to make a mockery out of all of us!"

"Oh, no Son, it's just the opposite."

I roll my eyes in disbelief.

"This wall is for me. I find it simply extrodinary. When you kids were younger, your father and I would often go to galleries and art exhibits because its something we both enjoyed, so one day I wanted a one-of-a-kind piece, and instead of searching for an artist, we decided to have it encompass the people we care about most."

She looks at the wall intently lost in thought.

"Sure, the clippings and photographs aren't ones that always showcase the good things that have happened, but they're real. We went through them."

She steps closer to the family portrait.

"This one's my favorite. We're all together. After your father died, the only thing that would lift my mood was this wall. All these memories, every high and low we went through is displayed proudly because if you look closely Son, you can see the love. And there's something so beautiful about the bad and the good coming together and creating what I've known all along."

"And what's that?"

"Family, and the memories you make with them could never be portrayed any better than reality intends. That's where the true masterpiece lies."