A Pocket Archive (44)

Strong fingers gently separated tangles of my hair in the darkness as I lay curled against the giant's chest, his fingers moving rhythmically, almost as if I were one of his guitars. I wondered if he were still thinking of his new amp. Normally the thrumming chords of his heartbeat would have lulled me to sleep, but tonight, every sound seemed a little louder and I felt like my blood was carbonated. The giant's hand closed over mine and I jumped, suddenly realizing I'd been fidgeting and twisting the sheets between my fingers.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know." I lied, sliding my fingers between his. It still struck me how small my hand felt in his. Sometimes I imagined him squeezing his own around mine and snapping off all my fingers off like icicles. It was silly, of course, but I almost wondered if he could do it.

I scooted closer to the him and slid my feet next to his under the blanket, trying to leach some of his warmth. His chest rose beneath me in a soft chuckle. "Afraid the ghost's going to lick your ankle?"

I pinched him in the ribcage. "I hate you."

The giant retaliated by pinching my leg, then flipped me onto my side and pulled me against him in a spooning position before kissing me gently on the ear. "Go to sleep."

I rolled my eyes and nestled into my pillow. My irritation wasn't entirely specious, however, because now I was face to face with the source of my insomnia.

At the opposite end of the room, the inky outline of a dark rectangle was erected like a tombstone against my drawing table, its features indistinguishable in the darkness. I didnt need to see it though- the image was firmly etched at the forefront of my mind, and I felt as though I could still sense every branch and brushstroke, and I was still keenly aware of the disproportionate shadows in the corner where a snowdrift refused to cooperate.

I'd already had mixed feelings about this particular painting, as it was strongly based off an image by Laura Makabresku, a Polish artist, and I don't like using others' compositions. Nevertheless, the giant had been enamored by the image and had wanted a copy for the living room, so I'd recreated it with my own spin. At this point, my interpretation had changed enough that even as a study, it had become an independent peice, but I didn't feel I could (or should) claim it by leaving my new signature in the corner. Besides, it still felt like it was still missing something important beyond just the dragon that I intended to add swooping over the treeline. I just didn't know what.

It made my fingers itch.

Thoughts of the painting would follow me throughout the next morning, accompanied by that same strange, electric anxiety which crackled through my veins like a downed powerline whenever I remembered the paintbrushes I'd left lying by the sink in my bathroom. I would spend much of my predawn commute studying the stark, skeletal branches of passing trees against the brightening winter sky, wishing the silhouettes on my own canvas were as crisp and detailed as the ones etched against the clouds above me.

Contrary to outward appearances, I have a very difficult time leaving anything unfinished. I take breaks from things, but I never abandon them. Once I become invested in a task, I intend to see it to completion. The problem is I'm also a perfectionist, so knowing when I've reached that point can be difficult. For this reason, I don't zero in on something or let myself get too invested in it if I suspect it's going to be a large time commitment, because I know I may lose myself in the process for a bit, or it might take me years to finish. If something does become personally important to me or someone that I care about, however, I will pursue it with everything I have and ensure that I see it through to the very end, regardless of the cost or outcome. It's the double-edged sword of my personality, and the painting was just one small exterior manifestation of it.

It recall thinking the other night in church that whenever I recite the rite of confession, there's always one line in particular that sticks with me: "forgive us for what we have done, and for what we have left undone". In my case, it's not the things I have done that worry me. What I lose sleep over is whether or not the things I have done are enough, if I could have done more, and if there's anything that I'm supposed to do, but somehow missed entirely. Was it ever enough?

There are so many roles in my life that I can never fulfill completely or perfectly, but I hope it's not for lack of effort. I can never be a perfect mother, partner, daughter, sister, or friend, but I still want to try my best to be as good as possible, especially if it improves their lives and well-being. I only hope that it's enough. If life is anything like painting, however, I know that I'm my own worst critic and where I see unfinished work, they probably just see something bright and beautiful. I also know that I'm still an unfinished work myself, and that my life's path is still being laid out and directed by the Great Artist Himself. Like me, He also intends to see His work to completion, but for Him, time is no barrier and He cannot make any mistakes and would not leave a single prayer unanswered or task unfinished.

The only thing I needed to do was wait and trust the process.