Page 3 of Inked in Bloom
As the students streak paint across their canvases, I walk around, refilling water cups, talking through different techniques, and making general conversation. For many of them, this is the place they’re fully themselves. Lost to their grief, angered or inspired by it. There is no judgment. Out in the world, they are bound by expectations. Here, I exchange those burdens for a few hours of peace.
“Will you tell me a bit about your piece?” I ask Ralph who’s painting a black carousel with majestic beasts on its poles. Smears of runny watercolors sop into the newspaper, dripping down the canvas, raining in inky splotches on the gloomily captured amusement.
“It’s a carousel my family used to go to when I was growing up. I went back a few weeks ago and it had been torn down.” His voice breaks off. “Made me think of my little girl. How much I want to get better. Get her back. I always thought I’d get to take her?—”
His chin wobbles and I nod, not pressing further. I’ve already gleaned his story in the fragments of these sessions. He’s one year sober, working on reclaiming custody of his daughter. She lives in Maryland with her grandparents after the death of her mother. Between the loss of his ex and missing his child, Ralph’s continuedcommitment to his sobriety and showing up diligently to this group for over six months is no small feat.
I continue circling the room, stopping in front of a canvas papered with clippings of the same small suburban house with lush flower beds wrapping around its porch. Thick blots of pink and white paint create budding blossoms, mimicking the ones in the photos.
“I love those flowers you’re working on, Phoebe. What are those?”
“They’re a type of peony.”
“Beautiful.” I admire the way the pink and white swirl together, almost like a watercolor. “I’ve never seen them in that shade. Or so large.”
One flower looks like it’s the size of my open palm with petals reaching past my fingers. I’m no flower expert, but Charlotte took pride in filling our windowsill vase each week with different vibrant blooms. Neither of us were especially great at keeping them alive, but we immortalized them in paint.
“They are a rare variant that grows around our family’s property. I’ve never seen them anywhere else.” A smile peels at the corners of her lips, and she points to a photo of a quaint house with a couple and their little girl standing on the porch, surrounded by the blossoms. “I’ll bring you some next time I come.”
“That’s so sweet, but you don’t have to.” She has no idea how futile life is for any plant or flower in my tiny apartment.
“I insist. They are really easy to care for. Plus, they bloom in spades for us each year. Thrive even through the winter months.”
“Sounds like a flower made just for me.” I chuckle. “Thanks, Phoebe,I’d love that.”
She beams and goes back to painting. I don’t miss the sheen of tears lining the bottom of her lids. With her parents both passing within the last year, she’s been in the thick of handling their property on top of her own job and being a single mom of two young kids.
Everyone here has a story—stories, more like. Unfortunately, loss doesn’t happen once. Grief exists in multitudes, and even years later, the hurt resurfaces. Sometimes when I facilitate these sessions, with people painting side by side, I miss the days of watching crappy reality TV with Charlotte, taking paint breaks that usually ended with us in a mess of colorful smears, gorging ourselves on heaps of junk food.
An hour later, I’m putting everything away with help from a few straggling students and community center staff. Friday nights in summertime DC are busy, both with commuters leaving the city after a long week of work and twenty-somethings decked out in club wear, heading to dinner before a night out on the town. The sunset peeks between buildings as I shuffle toward the metro. Sweat beads at my brow from the dense July humidity, my skirt sticking to my chaffing thighs. I can’t wait to get home and get out of these clothes.
I’ve two stops, then a line change and another three until I’m in the heart of Shirlington and picking up my order from my favorite Thai restaurant a few blocks from home.
When I step inside the apartment, I put my Thai on the counter and change out of my work clothes, grimacing at the smear of pink across my silk blouse. With a groan, I head for the sink, handwashing the spot and hanging it next to the top I wore last Friday. A row of canvases line the hall leading to the bedroom, an assortment of pieces made by Charlotte and me that I can’t seem to part with. The rest Igave to her parents. They don’t match at all, but they mean too much to tuck out of sight.
Throwing on my ex’s old light-blue button-up shirt and a pair of green-striped tube socks, I go back into the living room and grab a container of fresh bok choy from the paper bag.
In the corner, my two bunnies watch me. Sir Thumps-A-Lot sits on his hind legs, rapidly tapping his foot while Jessica eyes me warily. She sees the leafy green clutched in my hand and scampers over to the edge of the pen, her tiny white nose wriggling. They go for the bok choy the moment I lay it on the ground. Her entire body is white, where his is chestnut brown with snowy spots around his floppy ears and tail.
Kneeling, I unlatch the pen, and they rush out from its entrance. Sir Thumps-A-Lot zips in speedy circles around the kitchenette, and I pat my thigh. “Hey, hey! You just got your cone of shame removed. Take it easy or you’ll need stitches again.” He slows to a gallop, spots the leaf I’m holding, and sniffs it a few times, greedily inhaling it in tiny bunny bites. Jessica frolics over, nudging me for more.
Situating myself on the couch, I throw on the latest season ofSmash or Pass, picking up where I left off. Sir Thumps-A-Lot leaps onto the cushion next to me, screeching in pain as he does. I check his hind paw, but the stitches are all intact.
“Thank goodness you didn’t rip those open. Again.”
Jessica Rabbit was originally Charlotte’s. She’d planned on getting a second one, as bunnies do well in bonded pairs, but then she found out she was sick and it never happened. I spent so many hours between work, volunteering at the community center, teaching a few online college courses, and checking in on Charlotte’s parents, that Istarted fostering bunnies to give Jessica a buddy. Right now, that’s Sir Thumps-A-Lot. Though he’s not like my usual fosters.
I found him a few months ago after a little boy was crying by the basketball court. The chestnut bunny was caught in the wiring of its metal fence. “You’re almost healed. Let’s just get through tomorrow’s appointment so some lucky person can adopt you.”
I wish it could be me, but Jessica hasn’t taken a liking to him. Even now, she huddles near the bowl in the corner of the pen, watching me pet Sir Thumps-A-Lot with nothing but disdain. I scratch his fluffy chin, and he scoots closer, inspecting my drunken noodles with avid curiosity. I grab another leaf of bok choy and shove it under his nose. Resigned, he begins gnawing at it, attention drifting toward the TV. A couple is caught sneaking away to hook up behind the villa. Sir Thumps-A-Lot perks up an ear, so I pretend he has some clue of what’s going on, pointing out my favorite celebrity personalities who I think are slated to win love and the grand prize.
I know the show is scripted. These people were forced together by a bunch of producers and paid to be extra dramatic. Those are not the conditions for building a real relationship. Regardless, an ache settles in my chest.
My attention drifts to my phone, and I pick it up, swiping through my messages.
Don’t text him. It’s over, Monroe. Set the damn boundary.
It’s my nightly mantra, especially heading into the weekend when I don’t have as much on my plate. Jay moved out three months ago, a year after we broke up. He wanted more of my time and attention. I’d given him all I could give. And while I should have made him leave sooner, I was barely home anyway, and he was all too happy sating myoccasional slipup. But it had become clear this pattern was doing neither of us any favors.
