Page 3 of Cedarwood Cabin
“She was a lovely lady. My mother always spoke fondly of Washington. Feels odd, but comforting to live where she grew up,” I reply.
“I can understand why it would feel odd. It’s like you’re walking in her footsteps. You might discover part of her life you never knew.”
“My mother made it sound beautiful growing up here. Being here helps me feel closer to her.”
We hear my father walking around his bedroom as we fall silent. My father makes an appearance, dressed in his uniform. “Okay. Let’s hit the road.”
Marty straightens up, unfolds his arms, and gives him a nod.
“Have a nice day, Flora,” Marty says, throwing a wink in my direction.
“You too, Marty,” I reply, watching them head out the door.
As soon as the door shuts, the house quiets. My thoughts feel lighter after speaking with Marty.
The sun filters through the kitchen window, casting a soft, orange glow over everything in its path. I throw on an oversized linen shirt with loosely fitted jeans. To avoid my hair getting in my face, I tie it up into a messy bun.
I set the table with my watercolors with my blank paper staring back at me.
Since my mother's death, my paintings have all been monochromatic. I just haven't been able to paint with colors anymore. My father encourages me, but I still paint in black and white.
I dip my brush into the black paint and feel a sense of calm wash over me as I start painting trees.
As I paint, the image of a forest starts to appear. I’ve always found solace when painting nature.
I watch the clock to ensure I don’t miss my appointment with my therapist. I let my feelings pour into the painting as it slowly comes into form. I paint small trees that are dark with white beams shining centermost through them. I step back and assess my work before adding final touches. The ticking of the clock catches my attention. I gather the painting supplies and clean up the table. I retrieve my laptop from the living room and place it on the kitchen table, ready for my appointment.
Realizing I have only two minutes, I sigh and mentally prepare myself. I feel my phone vibrate on the table. Glancing over, I see a text message from my father, reminding me that I have my therapist appointment and wishing me luck.
I open my laptop and feel both nervous and uptight. I take a deep breath before pressing the link to join the appointment. I adjust the camera and ensure my audio is in place. My therapist joins the appointment and I greet her with a fake smile.
“Confirm your name and age, please,” my therapist says in her stern, British accent.
I want to sigh, but suppress it and reply, “Flora Lockley, twenty.”
As my therapist writes notes, I observe her. She is a typical, older British lady with white hair that’s neatly trimmed into a pixie cut. Her glasses nearly cover the deep wrinkles on her face.
She adjusts her glasses and pushes them down her nose. Due to the different time zones, it’s evening in England. The room is dark, with just a lamp shining in the room.
“So, Flora, how have you been since our last session?” she asks, probing.
I take a deep breath before answering, “Challenging, but I’ve been painting a lot.”
She adjusts her glasses. “Painting and artwork can be a powerful outlet,” she observes.
“It helps me process,” I agree. “However, I keep having nightmares recently.”
She writes down notes while listening as I describe the images that trouble my sleep.
“I see...Grief can manifest in different ways. It’s common for people to have nightmares after a loss. Have you found peace or relief at any moment?”
I hesitate, but my hiking trip with my father comes to mind.
“Yes, in small ways.”
“It’s about finding things that can bring you relief, Flora. You must remember to allow yourself grace along the way,” she reminds me.
Our session continues and I feel lighter as she gives me guidance.
