Guernica

“She waited for me to do something, and when I didn’t she rocked forward slowly and stood up” (Firelight, Wolff 260). She opened her mouth to say something, licking them to moisten dry lips. It closed abruptly though, no words. I looked away to the wall shamed, down to floor that had no eyes to look back at me with accusation. I stayed there on the floor crouched until the silence pushed me into nonexistence, until there was no peace in hiding, until I too stood and faced them both. I tried to find my mother below the long hair that had fallen over her face, but she turned away as if she could feel me searching. I too shifted away from her. No forgiveness for either of us then. My father met my eyes with ease, and they looked down into my soul with an uncaring cynicism, as if he expected nothing worthy within. He turned away his head and I feared that he had been right.

She turned away and I knew already where this would lead, my eye stretching to a place unknown. There was no longer a space in her eye for me any longer, no trust wasted on one who could give nothing back. I had let her down. My father would be worse than ever, consoling her from my betrayal, while his hate of me would intensify like light through a magnifying glass. He would never let her see though, not let on that no one was paying for my lunches any more or writing notes for being late to school. In a word he would abandon me without for a second having turned me out of his house.
Despite all of this I could remember a different time, a better one. I could see my mother and I in a park, autumn having already burned its fire through the trees, all a uniform auburn shade. I was placed carefully between my mother’s legs and they rose around me like twin peaks, yet so much smoother. I could still feel the warmth and comfort of her scent as she leaned over me, hands cupping my small, child’s hands. Together we patted the mud into small cakes, the wet dirt inching its way up our arms and beneath our fingernails. The products were slimy little things and as any sensible bakers would, we placed them in the sun to dry. There were five of them – five little cakes placed neatly in a row. It was my birthday. I knew though, that had we been able to afford a cake, I would have been no happier blowing out those small flames and consuming the mass of food, so sickly sweet, than I was there, nestled so safe in her arms.

My thoughts flew near and away, and all the while I could again hear the tick of the mantelpiece clock, counting the seconds until my life would begin again to fall apart. In each tick was a ray of light that flew through it all, enlightening. A dust mote hovered in the air before my face, illuminated by the sharp glare of the desk lamp. I wondered if my father who sat benignly beside it had pointed it at my face on purpose, the intent to bathe me in light of retribution. All around me the world was chopped into squares and triangles by the pattern of shadow and light. Those bright rays left this assortment of opaque objects to shine into the rods of my eyes, giving me an impression of their beauty. It shined too onto me for all the world to see. The colors seemed to bleed though. It was all white, too mixed, and too bright. Pale and dark, I was the subject of Picasso’s Guernica, painted in dark grey geometric shapes, weeping the luminescent glare that left behind a swathe of black, dark from lack of warmth. Just as hard, just as sad. To the viewer that is. As the glow seemed to intensify under my scrutiny, I wondered: is white the better for seeming full of color, or black for taking such a rainbow of happiness into itself, absorbing it to keep hidden within?