The Story Of My Life

I love the brushes, paint, canvas, and the charcoal. I love the lines and the charcoal dust as it hangs in the tooth of the canvas, the pigment as it glides across the surface. I love the drips and the smell of the paint. I love the moment when two colors pop and the energy contained in a painted stroke. I love the questioning and not knowing. I love the travels inside, while my hand keeps moving. I love the moment of beginning and the moment of completion. I love it when it all goes to hell and the moment a painting is reborn into something new. I love it all, truly, deeply."

I rake my hands over the white sheets as I flatten out the wrinkles of my childhood bed. The faded red comforter is still placed neatly at the end of the bed and the numerous pillows continue to be clean and fluffed. As it stands in my memory, almost everything in this room is exactly the same as how I had left it. My dresser still stands in the corner and the knob my brother and his friends had taken a baseball bat to is still missing. Even now, my late night coffee stains cling to the white rug and The Story of Ferdinand rest on its designated area of my nightstand. The only things missing are her paintings. They had all been taken down and sold for any amount that could make off of them. Now bare walls glare back at me. Of course this decision was made while I was away at college. My Uncle, Samuel, had decided that Mom’s prized possessions were worth more in paper than on canvas.

One day, Lord helped him select some canvases for a scheduled trade with an art dealer more interested in the sale than what the artist felt were his better pieces. Another time, Lord finally stopped Giacometti, who, in a frenzy, slashed and stacked canvases to be disposed of. The portrait itself was only finished, far from the artist’s satisfaction, when James Lord told him he could not delay his departure any longer.

The pictures along the wall showcased happy things; a picture-perfect nursery, a proud mother and father looking lovingly at their newborn bundle, infant toys. In my mind I turned them all into lenticular paintings. The perfect nursery became dark and almost ominous room, the curtains frayed; the proud parents now sat sobbing with empty arms; the infant toys spread across the floor fragmented into abandoned pieces. I felt far away from the reality I was facing. Slowly I continued to walk, dazed.

As I am sitting by the bay window I start to see all the things that could happen instead of what is happening. I try not to be as negative as I am, I try to be the best did you see there that I tried to be positive for a second, but it just goes away, I don’t know why, it just feels as if I am walking on water and at that point as I feel free I fall right into the water just like that but you will know why. So, here I am telling you my story about my life,  my problems, and solutions this is how it all started.

Most people, including myself, have that one special item or group of items that they cannot live without, but is that all we see them as? Sometimes people think that an object as simple as a pen cannot possibly play a major part in forming someone’s life story, even though they do not know the story behind it. For all they know, that pen is a form of inspiration that pushes its owner to write just like their most cherished authors and just like that pen, I have objects in my life that do the same for me. A few of my most treasured objects that tell my life story are heirlooms my grandpa left me, my Ipod Shuffle, and books. They all have a back story and play a strong role in structuring the backbone of what is my life story.

It was a sunny day but I didn’t care. All I wanted was my mom. This story takes place in Guatemala City, Guatemala where it isn’t safe to walk at night. It happened when I was around three or four years old. After standing at that corner, now I know my life would have been very different if my brother and aunt hadn’t showed up in time. This is the story of when I ran from home as a child.

“My little girl is going to make it far! This one is going to see the world!”, uttered my grandfather as he held me for the first time after I was born. It turned out he was right as always. My life story includes escaping war-torn Kabul on a donkey which my family and I are lucky to have survived after nearly being hit by a missile, then immigrating to Germany for hopes of a better future and lastly ending up in the United States as a teenager. Three different continents and each provided me with more growth then the previous one.

My story is one that starts before birth. After all I was born in 30 weeks. My mom(Bella), had a difficult pregnancy. At 5 months and half Bella started bleeding. The doctor’s found out that she had full placenta praevia. Full placenta praevia is complication in which the placenta is inserted partially or wholly in lower uterine segment. This blocks the baby to be born naturally and causes the mother bleeding. Bella would bleed every day and was in the emergency room five times because of the constant bleeding. The fifth and final time Bella fainted and found herself in the hospital.

A dimly-burning fire illuminated the shadows that had begun to slide behind the furniture, its last few divergent, dying embers perfectly mimicking the colors so dutifully draped around the room, reflecting off the red-and-gold trinkets trimming the tops of the shelves and tapestries trailing down the walls. Whatever little warmth it offered only paled in comparison to that which was radiating from right beside me.

They began talking about writing people up regarding certified pieces and his leave time having to be put in on a Friday. He said “No, things are fine,” regarding writing people up.” He was talking about her cursing at him earlier in the morning and she said, “This is how we do.” He will say it and she will deny it to the fullest. He said, “you her hear right?” He said, “Let him get out of here,” joking and she said, “yeah before you get yourself in trouble because of what I’m smelling.” He points to the water bottle on her desk and says, “you sure it not you, or what you got in there.” She said, “Get out of here,” and then he left. I was send back out to help Marina on Route 9.

I caught a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla as I stepped into the guest bedroom and dropped Caleb's bag on the bed.  Terracotta walls, Italian tile floor, and blue curtains.

"Mom, Leya's gonna be over any second to pick me up for school. I figured I'd go ahead and tell you bye since you don't look like you're coming down anytime soon." I plucked a sloppy kiss on her cheek as she gave me an awkward half-hug while shuffling through some more papers on her desk in a nonplussed manner.

The lunchroom was crowded when I arrived. It was hard to find anyone in the crowd, but I managed to spot Sara. She was standing on her tiptoes, waving at me. I waved back before making my way to the back of the cafeteria. They’d reserved a seat for me using a water bottle. I’m always the last one to lunch, so this happens every day. I murmur “Thanks,” handing Laney the water bottle. She barely notices me and continues talking. Glancing to my left, Emily and Aidan whisper about their weekend plans. On my right, Bella and Grace ramble on about the upcoming test in Mrs. Jenkins’s class.

My story starts here. I was at Sisters Chicken working my shift with one hour left to go until the end of it. I actually enjoyed working here; the people and staff were very nice. I liked how the walls were painted in a bright blue, but it wasn’t too bright. I was sitting at one of the bigger booths in the back cleaning it after customers had just finished eating. I hated being the one to cleanup. I would much rather be a waitress, I thought.