Letters to Audrine

6- Never Lose Your Magic

"That's it," my grandpa encouraged me. "Just do whatever feels right to you."

I loved not having any rules to follow, and knowing that no matter what move I made with the paint or my movements, or how much of a mess that I made, my grandpa would still be proud of me.

"Dad, what are you doing?" my mom interrupted us as I was splashing some blue onto the canvas. I stopped in my tracks, knowing already that she'd be so upset at the mess we made. "She has violin practice in an hour!"

"We were just having some fun, Allison," he insisted, seemingly unapologetic.

"She's a mess!" my mom exclaimed as she marched toward me. "There's paint all over her face."

"Maisie is a kid," he reminded her with an eye roll. "She's allowed to get messy every once in a while."

Grabbing a tissue from the shelf by the door, my mom started to scrub my face free from paint. I winced and pulled away with a loud, "Ouch!"

"Stay still, Maisie," she scolded me. "You look ridiculous."

"You are overreacting," he defended us again. "So what if she's a little messy for violin practice? It's a stupid skill to have anyway when she should be out having fun with her friends."

"I don't have any friends," I complained to him as my mom continued to scrape the paint off my face and neck.

"Well, you would have friends if your mom didn't treat you like a trophy and let you be a kid more often," he said to me, grumpily crossing his arms over his chest.

"Thanks for that, Dad," my mom grumbled sarcastically. With a loud sigh, she gave up on washing the paint off and stands up straight. "We're just preparing her for the real world. We'll clean you up on the way, Maisie, say goodbye to Grandpa."

Dreading the violin practice that I had to go to next, I ran to my grandpa. Wrapping my tiny arms around his waist, I squeezed as tightly as I could. "I don't want to leave," I complained, trying to squeeze onto him so hard that they couldn't possibly get me away from him.

"Maisie, if you make us late for your tutor, I'm not going to be happy," she threatened me, feeling very aggravated with both me and my grandpa.

"Goodbye, Grandpa," I gave in very easily to my mom's demands, releasing my grandpa so that I could go with my mom to practice violin.

"I'll see you later, kiddo," he leaned over and kissed the top of my head. He crouched down in front of me to meet my eyeline and then muttered in a very quiet voice, "Never lose your magic, darling."

"I won't," I assured him.

He held out one of his large pinkies and said, "Pinky promise me?"

I smiled at him and wrapped my much smaller, paler, pinky around his and I said, "I promise, Grandpa."

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I wake up from my dream with tears falling down the sides of my face. I'd never had such a vivid, realistic dream about a real memory. It really felt like my grandpa was with me, like I could just reach out and hug him again.

Realizing that it was just a dream, and that I'm alone in my hotel room is devastating. I close my eyes again, trying to go back to sleep and get back to my dream where I can be with my grandpa. After a few minutes of trying, and failing, to return to my childhood memory dream, I give up.

I wipe the tears from my face and sit up in my bed to be greeted by the bright sun beaming into my eyes through the open window. I can't get that memory out of my head now, dancing around my grandpa's art room as we splattered paint all over the canvas. I don't know what my grandpa meant by telling me to never lose my magic, but I hope I haven't disappointed him.

Without thinking about it too much, I grab my phone to send a message. I don't know what makes me send this message to Silas, but there's suddenly this idea in my head that I cannot shake.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity to show off my French, I try my best to form a coherent message.

J'ai besoin de ton aide

Which I know means 'I need your help' because I double checked it on Google Translate. Even though I know this isn't the most reliable source for translating other languages, I'm sure that it'll still get the message across if it's not perfect.

By the time that I'm done brushing my teeth and tying my hair into a messy bun on top of my head, Silas has messaged me back.

J'écoute

He responds with 'I'm listening' (I don't even need Google Translate to understand that, and I feel very proud of myself).

The next part, I don't even try to type in French because I don't even know where to start with it. So I respond in English.

I want to get a tattoo.

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Picture: Pollock Painting

Song: Dernière Danse - Indila