CLOUDS FOR TREVOR
When Trevor died I stopped making art.
I was already passionately angry that we occupied two countries. Now, with my favorite nephew killed in military action, I floated between sorrow and anger – turning to the garden as the only place of solace.
I stared at flowers in quiet moments and buried my knees firmly in the earth to tear at weeds during angry ones.
Tears spilled onto my glasses as angry hands ripped at dying lilies. A downward thrust and sharp stalks pierced my fingers. I pulled back, glasses falling to the ground as blood splattered onto remnants of yellow and orange petals. In pain, I tried to push the jagged stems out of me. I fail to get them all out. Bloody hands droop between my legs. I bow my head and cry.
Years ago I lay in the bed of my studio apartment above the funeral home, sad and closeted, barely making enough money to live. Staring at the ceiling, I wondered if it wouldn't be better to be laid out in the embalming room at the bottom of the stairwell than live such a lonely life.
Then Trevor was born.
Every moment spent with him freed me from my secret torment. He didn't expect anything. He laughed easily at everything. Sometimes I worried he wouldn't catch his breath as he laughed without control. I laughed. It was the only time I laughed.
When I joined the Peace Corps Trevor shoved a crayon drawing up at me. "Good luck in your new home Danny!" My eyes welled up in front of my little savior. Leaving him was the hardest thing I had to do. But leaving was the next step in saving myself.
For hours and days and months and months after his death I would lean against the door to my studio and stare in. Then slowly turn and walk away.
I chased after clouds seeking signs. It gave me purpose. Walk and walk and walk and walk.
I stared at a beetle crawling through the grass. Sunlight hit the little black body and made it shine like a prism. I stared at pebbles until they changed color. No longer grey, but blue, green and purple.
Months passed. A year passed. And more months.
I leaned against the door of my studio. What's this? Pictures of clouds on the drafting table. When did those come to be?
The last time I saw Trevor I shoved a drawing up at him. He laughed. Not like the grown Marine he was, but like the little boy that saved me so many years ago. His body had grown. His infectious, uncontrollable laugh had not.
I am drawing again. I chase the clouds in hopes of some sign. I rub the piece of lily shrapnel in my thumb and think fondly of him. Time has eased the pain, but only a little.