Tessa sits. Her stool has a messed-up wheel that always seems to catch on the knots in her wooden floors. The window is open, and no breeze seems to shuffle through; the air feels stale, despite all her attempts. The watchful eye of her grandfather’s real love keeps her in line, on task, as best as it can.
The church bells toll through the stifling heat. Tessa wheels,
whrrrchick, whrrrchick, whrrrchick,
over to her paint palette. Inherited from her grandmother, like her eyes, holding the years of dried watercolour. The palette's wood matches the floor's: dark, oaken, and worn. The solidified colours sit in the same natural notches her wheels catch on,
whrrrchick, whrrrchick, whrrrchick.
She remembers her grandmother, draped in vintage silks gathered on Navy voyages and clinking bracelets made from ivory and gold, showing her how the powder transforms into colours Tessa had never seen. Greens that match the flecks in her mother’s eyes, and the grass that now grows from her. Blues that rival the ocean her grandfather still yearns for, despite his leg. His leg, which matches the floor, matches the palette that sits between them, which he made himself.
“Tessy, darling, what you need to remember is: people will always yearn for a life that seems out of reach.” Her bracelets hit the back of Tessa’s head as she ran her fingers through her dark hair. Her grandmother’s voice felt rich in Tessa’s ears as she whispered; the silks had come off her shoulders and blanketed Tessa in a cloud of rose and brown sugar.
Tessa’s eyes closed, and she fell asleep with her head in her grandmother’s lap, lulled by the hand in her hair and the slow, gentle movement of the painting of the other. Dripping water into the palette, Tessa mixes the ochre yellow and rust orange into life, autumn calling her back to the canvas. The bells toll again, and she wheels herself to the still open, still useless window,
whrrrchick, whrrrchick, whrrrchick.
Watching the town spill onto the church grass, mingling, she wonders if anyone noticed her absence, if they would understand. If she squints, she can see them in the crowd, her grandmother’s hands wrapped around a forearm in excitement, bracelets making a noise that can’t be covered by the bells and her grandfather, with his cane made of the floor, of the palette, and of his leg, standing just behind her, his back to hers, staring out towards the sea. Blinking back tears, Tessa wheels back to the palette, the paint dried onto her brush, in some attempt to start everything again.
Whrrrchick, whrrrchick, whrrrchick
