Painted

There’s a little stone wall outside my house, only a couple feet tall. The flowers on either side were taller than it by at least a foot, the bright yellow petals the perfect height for smelling. It was a nice little wall, but the stones were a little loose. Loose enough that I could pull a stone out of the top two layers with just my fingernails. I didn’t dare try the lower ones.

I would often sneak out to that wall after dinnertime, when most of the chores were done. The sun would begin to set in the spring days, giving the sunflowers a sort of halo of golden light. I could sit on the north side of the wall, brining my knees up to my chest and my chin on my knees, and avoid being seen by any who might try to find me. In doing so, I was technically on the neighbor’s property, but I rarely ever saw them so how would they know.

I was nine, hiding behind the wall as the sun settled into the open arms of the horizon. I dug my finger into the grout of the wall, picking off chunks and flicking them into the dirt, until I could wiggle my finger in and pull out the stone. It happened to be the stone perfectly at eye level so that I could see the leaves and stems of the flowers on the other side. It felt like my little door to another world, a place I could observe without being observed.

“Hey!” The shrillness of the voice shocked me, it sounded more like the high keys on a xylophone than a human voice. “What are you doing?”

I turned my head to see a woman standing about ten yards from me with a backpack slung over her shoulder and dirt streaked down her arms. Overpowered by instinct, I dropped the stone and leaped over the wall. I didn’t look back until I was by the house and I couldn’t make out the little wall on the horizon, let alone her.

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I didn’t go back to my spot for over a week, even though the memory of that missing brick haunted me. Thinking back, my memory pulled at the details of the moment like loose threads of a sweater—I had pulled out the brick on my first try, I was saving a squirrel from being caught by a hawk, I had seen real live pixies under that stone. I wasn’t even sure if I had my hair in braids or loose. I drifted off thinking of the brick and my private little door, my spot. It became even more magical and magnetic the more I thought back to it. It was exactly a week when the pull became too strong and I went back.

All was as I had left it except the brick was nestled back in its spot. It was only differentiated in the hole where I had poked my finger in. At first, I settled in to sit on my side of the wall, but after a minute or two I accepted that it just wasn’t right. I stood up, and looking around, I didn’t see anyone, not even the backpack girl. I stuck one leg over the wall and sunk down into the dirt. Settling down into my spot felt like a breath of fresh air, even though I had been outside all day. The brick came out even easier this time, like softened butter from the package, and I held it in my hands.

It wasn’t a large stone but looked imposing enough in my little hands. It was maybe a couple pounds and wearing down in spots. The side that had been facing me was smooth enough. I turned to lean my back against the wall and watch the sunset light up the neighbor’s property. The golden light on the peeling barn and faded truck made it all feel so much softer, more welcoming.

I must’ve drifted off, because suddenly, it was growing dark. Again, I dropped the stone and ran back home.

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The next time I came back with a plan and a tube of yellow and a tube of brown paint.

I had loved painting for years, enough so that every wall of my room was covered in paintings. Not like, I painted on paper and tacked them up, but I painted every inch of dry wall in my room. Walking into my room was like walking in a kaleidoscope of evergreen trees, blue whales, dirt caked hands, and curled up worms and snakes. My mother complained it made her head spin, my father complained of the smell of wet paint, but they never truly stopped me. Not outwardly stopping me was just enough bait for me to keep going. My paintings had recently graduated to the ceiling, which mean stacking books on my bed and climbing on top of the leaning towers. My butt and elbows were covered in bruises from losing my balance and falling on the floor, but I kept at it. After my room was decorated, I’d take over my little brother’s room. At two years old, he couldn’t really stop me.

I thought about the walls of my room as I stepped over the wall; I thought about the way the pictures bled together so when you squinted, it looked more like a rainbow than a series of paintings.

I settled in and easily pulled out my stone. I didn’t bother to look around for anyone, I trusted the sunflowers to look out for me. I opened the yellow paint and got to work.

My butt started to go numb from sitting in the dirt, but I was finally done. I eased the final stone back on top of the wall and stepped back. Staring at me were hundreds of smiling sunflowers, passing from stone to stone. The final touch was my signature in the bottom left corner of the painting. Being nine, I didn’t have much of a signature, just my initial and then a bunch of scribbles. Pretty ineligible.

Which is how I always wondered how Mom found out.