A Color With Love

Chapter 11

The sun shown a gentle lavender through my eyelids. All track of time seemed lost in the peace of endless shapes and exquisite color flowing in the river that is my thoughts. The only time that seemed relatively routine was the pat-pat-pattering of rain against the smooth, cool window of which I rested my forehead. How long I've been doing so, I can only guess. And by guessing--probably five hours.

My mind often drifted toward the sound of the rain. The almost ominous murmurs of wind casted by the thick breath of many towering trees. I have loved rain for as long as I could remember. Particularly when my mom decided she wanted to see the ocean on a cold, obviously wet, dreary day. . .

I was eleven when my mom sobered up enough to take me. Those moments were rare and so I did everything in my power to take advantage of them. This was in California, before we lost the house and ended up in a two-bedroom dump in Chicago. This was when, believe it or not, my mom actually put effort into my well-being. Those were the days. How few I remember now that most of them died away in the dense fog of alcoholism and hate.

I recall it being a rather short drive and that stormy clouds had hung heavily obscured in the dark sky. Like a threat that would inevitably become a reality. God knows why the Hell my mom chose that day of all the sunny, cheery days in July. But even still, I didn't mind because my mom was doing what many "normal" people call it: Bonding. And a chance to be with her, especially sober, was the chance of a life-time. Like going to Disney World or winning the lottery.

Finally, we'd made it. The clouds were reaching their point of explosion and I was suddenly all too aware of the fact that I was wearing nothing but a thin, yellow sun dress. My mom's brown curls were whipping behind her in the savage gusts of wind. She looked so free that even her chocolate eyes smiled with awe at such unfathomable freedom. She then grabbed both of my hands. Oh how I missed her soft, warm hands!

"This is it!" She jumped with joy.

"For what?" I asked completely exasperated.

She stroked my cheek, "God's loving tears!" As she said it, a crash of thunder echoed across the endless grey of the deadly waves. My toes dug deeper into the cool sand in fear and thrill. My mom is crazy, I thought without a doubt. Nevertheless, God's "loving" tears poured down on us, soaking me to the bone.

The salty breeze thrashed as I accused her of pure insanity, "How is THIS love?"

She had to shout over the angry waves plummeting into the shore, "I don't know! But I know this is," She took off her sweatshirt and fit it easily over my head.

I laughed at a loss of words and leaped into my mother's arms in a tight hug, that I hoped never to forget. All sounds of the rain, the crashing thunder, the bitter waves were muffled in the safety of her arms. I remember inhaling deeply the scent of sweet lilac. The scent of a loving mother that unfortunately I never grew to know after that. . .

I could have sworn a waft of it had just passed under my nose just seconds ago. Without protest, I once again breathed longingly.

"M-Mom?" I mumbled, opening my eyes seeing not the plummeting grey waves in my past but the inner depths of a sleek-blue Jeep owned by none other than my aunt, Trena Arnoldson.

"Uhmm... N-No, it's me," She looked at me funny, then continued driving into a huge city. A city that was neither Chicago nor the thunderous beaches in California.

I sighed, looked over at Trena, and a thought stuck me: You can't help but think those eyes of hers had a certain color with love..I was finally going home.