I moved into this apartment almost a year ago. It was just the beginning of summer and the rains had just stopped. Kelli suggested the paint and we brushed in the corners in the dying light of the day. The next day Erin and I bought more paint, the coolers, the beer, and snacks and locked ourselves in for a day. The entire studio was an adobe brown, we covered it all in an eggshell white. After, in the heat, we ran to the beach which was less than a block away, and cool ourselves in the pacific blue. She wore multi-colored thrift store sunglasses, I, the big Jackie-O. We found sand in our sandwiches, between teeth. We bought our first summer dresses. She twirled in a baby yellow, and I in a tight blue gingham. Later that evening I would kiss the handsome boy that didn't wear socks with his shoes. He bit my lip so hard, it bled.
At first I thought there might be too much white: asylum white. But, after filing the rest of the place with soft pines, bamboo shades, and the warmth of reason, it was perfectly fitting. Only one painting was necessary on the walls, the one just above my bed. I had painted it and used it for the flier of a show earlier that year. It was one pig, in sumi ink, with a huge soft yellow bubble over his head. In the bubble were two pigs with distorted faces flying with tiny wings through stylized clouds. I gave the real, full explanation to a room of guests moments after I broke my hand, tears streaming down my face, the blood quickly filling under the ice in the sink:
"Soulmates! It is my soulmate painting! The pig is dreaming about flying through the clouds with his soulmate!" I was screaming, laughing, crying, drunk and delirious!
"Their faces are distorted because...it is only a dream! Just a daydream! That is ME! It is all a daydream..."
Everyone laughed. I offered them wine. I didn't know most of them, they had all appeared in my apartment like a flood. They had cooed in my ear, patted my back, gave me water, laughed at my jokes. My hand was swelling, the muscles were tightening.
Later, when I was all alone in my apartment, the pain swelled to the point of disintegration. I finally called my parents. My father told me to go to the hospital. I was surprised, we never went to the doctor, we always took care of it on our own: Home Remedies, used crutches in the attic, my mother wincing as my father cleaned the gash and, after 4 hours of surgery, wrapped her up. She healed beautifully; his scar faded; my sickness went away. He told me that he realized we can't take care of everything and if he had gone to the hospital in the past, he might not be suffering now.
I stopped crying, replaced fear with relief-finally, permission to do what people normally do, and got in my car, drove myself to the hospital with one eye open, one hand on the wheel, through the fog.
I was missing a window box. I found my first plant by my door. It was a huge green pot with a fat aloe plant. There was a note from the girl above. It nested between the bars and the window pane just right. We sliced at it with sharp knifes to heal our wounds. Later, after my broken hand, my mother built a ledge and we added more plants. The prize plant was the gardenia she bought me. It was a glossy green and the prospect of spring, of pungent white flowers, made it the gem of my small garden. A month later, during the fires, it shriveled down to a crisp brown death. So did the basil, the wildflowers, and the peppermint.
I wanted birds, I wanted hummingbirds and little chirping birds, but, birds wouldn't come to a flowerless window.
I had to get away for a month. Anywhere: the hot tropics, the cold American center, the bustling island. It had been rainy and cold and I was sharing my place with a girl that was missing moments of time. I hopped from one disappointment to the next, dreading the thought of returning home, bundling up, changing skins, rearranging my guts.
When I finally returned, the place was calm, quiet, and so very white: asylum white. The sheets were fresh, fluffed, crisp white. The floors were clean, the mirrors were clean. A reprieve. A retreat. I slept for days, longer and later each day. I kept the shades down, I turned up the heat. I moved around like a mouse, stopping every now and then to reflect on sentiment. A burst, one cry.
Last night I rolled up the bamboo so the sun would shine in in the morning. It was the latest I had slept. I looked at my small garden, the one I had neglected for months. The aloe plant had bloomed while I was away-a tiny stalk with bright orange tubular flowers, straight from the heart. I saw a small hummingbird stop, in the frame of my window, to taste the insides of the blooms.
My eyes opened wide, my heart began to split open: a little bloom.
