The San Diego sky is beautiful tonight. Vibrant hues of tangerine melt into a deep shade of magenta over the San Diego Skyline. I peered through a crack in the door to the back porch as I intently studied my new foster mom. Her dark brown skin glowed in the rays of the sun. She carefully spread oil paint across the canvas with a pallet knife while humming a happy tune to herself.
When you're a foster teen, you cycle through a lot of moms, but I've never met anyone quite like her before. Her name is Penelope Kingston. I don't know what kind of job she has, but she wears a pink suit every single day. She owns one in every shade from blush to cerise. Some were covered in various prints and patterns while others were plain. Her closet looked more like it belonged to a Barbie doll than it did a person. Tonight, she was wearing a rose-colored sundress, and she'd woven a flower crown of fresh carnations into her boho braids. She joyously danced along to the tune in her head as she added more color. I've never met someone who is so unabashedly themselves before. I wonder how it feels not to care what anyone thinks of you.
During my deep contemplation, Penelope caught sight of me spying and beckoned me outside. I trudged outside with a guilty expression, resembling that of a puppy that had been caught chewing on its owner's shoes.
She giggled. "Don't look at me like that, Fierro. You're not in trouble."
The corners of my lips turned upward in a half smile.
She proudly showed off her painting. "What do you think?"
"It's pretty," I said honestly. The painting was a vibrant interpretation of the sun setting over the San Diego skyline.
She stroked her chin thoughtfully. "You're right. It is pretty, but it's missing something." She handed me a fine-tipped paintbrush. "Here, add something."
I shook my head and tried to give the brush back to her. "No way, I can't do that. I'll probably do it all wrong and ruin your artwork."
"There's no wrong way to express yourself creatively," She chided. "Besides I have plenty more paintings."
I hesitantly dipped the tip of my brush into brown paint and added two small birds sitting on a telephone wire.
"It's perfect!" She squealed, pulling me into a tight hug. "You've got a real artistic eye."
"I barely did anything."
"That's alright! Everyone's artistic journey starts somewhere." She reached behind her easel and pulled out a blank mixed-media sketchbook. "Here
"You can ask me anything."
"Why do you wear your hair like that? What's the point of all the flowers?"
She paused for a long moment. "Well, how did you pick your current hairstyle?"
I ran a hand over my buzz cut. "I don't know. I've never really thought about it before. I guess it's because it's easier to take care of, and I'm less likely to get lice in a group home."
"Does your appearance make you feel confident?"
I gave an indifferent shrug.
"For me, my look is about more than convenience. It's about self-expression. My hair makes me feel like me, you know?"
"I don't think I know who I am," I confessed.
Well then, we need to help you find yourself.
In the following weeks, I took Penelope's sketchbook with me to school and tried to draw some random objects I saw. So far, I had drawn a pen, a service dog, a basketball, a 3-D model of the human brain, and a bag of chips stuck in the vending machine. They all looked terrible. The lines were all wonky, the depth was all wrong. Oh well, I tried. I tucked the sketchbook in the back corner of my closet. In other news, I started growing my hair out. I couldn't stop thinking about my conversation with Penelope. Did I feel confident in my own skin? Should I? I didn't have answers to those questions, but a change of style couldn't hurt. Right now, my hair is spiked up in several different directions. It was still too short to properly style, so I was stuck looking like a chicken for the time being. Did I feel more like myself? Maybe. I don't know what myself is supposed to feel like. When you spend your entire life just trying to survive, you don't always have the time to discover yourself.
On the last Saturday in May, I came downstairs to find Penelope eagerly waiting for me. "Put your shoes on. We're going on an adventure." She threw a tote bag at me, which I caught in midair. I peeked inside to find it full of art supplies. "Your sketchbook has been collecting dust for too long. Let's fill it up today!"
"But I'm not any good at drawing. I don't think I'm meant to be making art."
"Don't be ridiculous. All expression is art and expression is for everyone," She insisted. "The most important question is, do you have fun when you're creating?"
I thought about it for a long time, then said. "I had fun painting with you on the patio."
"Perfect! Let's make something together!" She led me to her strawberry-pink Mercedes and hopped in. "Alright Fierro, if you don't like art what kind of things do you like to do?"
"Napping," I said without hesitation.
She laughed. "Okay, what else?"
"I like to go for walks."
"Great! What do you enjoy about the walks?"
"I guess I enjoy being outside in the fresh air and watching the birds."
"Buckle up, I know exactly where we're going."
We drove in silence for several minutes. I could tell the lack of conversation was killing her, but I was too shy to say anything. Eventually, she couldn't bear it any longer and spoke up, "So I've been thinking, we should decorate your room. It's so empty and depressing right now."
To her, my room probably looked like a barren wasteland. In comparison to the rest of the house, it was pretty desolate. Penelope's home was a lot like her. It was filled with color and personality, and decorated with love. Every room was themed after a different color of the rainbow and adorned with vibrant floral wallpaper and an eclectic collection of up-cycled furniture. Every surface was littered with trinkets and knick-knacks. The word Minimalism was not in her vocabulary. My room was the opposite of hers, it was completely bare apart from a twin-sized bed and an old trash bag filled with my humble belongings. "No, thank you. I want to keep it the way it is. It will be easier to pack up when I have to leave." I stared blankly out the window, so I wouldn't have to make eye contact with her as I spoke.
"Fierro," she whispered with so much sadness in her voice it broke my heart. "You know I care about you, right?"
I nodded.
"I know it will be hard for you to ever feel fully at home somewhere, but I want you to know I don't have any plans to get rid of you. So you can relax, alright?"
"Alright," I said, just to appease her. I'd heard that one before and I know how it ends. If I know one thing for sure, It's that parents never stay. Even if Penelope is telling the truth, and she won't transfer me to another home, I'm still sixteen rapidly approaching eighteen. Once I age out of the system I'll be all on my own. If I let myself love her, I don't think I'll be able to live with the pain of letting her go.
We pulled into the parking lot and I read the large green sign. San Diego Zoo.
Woah, isn't this place crazy expensive?" I remarked. I can't afford this. My bank has negative ten dollars in it!"
She placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Chillax. This is my treat. You need to learn to let lose a little bit."
We purchased our tickets and entered the park. I glanced at Penelope expectantly as she studied the map. "Where are we going first?"
"That's up to you. Where is your artist's intuition leading you?"
I pointed to the aviaries on the map.
She beamed. "Excellent choice."
We stepped into the elegant glass dome and the birds erupted into a cacophony of chirps and caws to welcome us to their habitat. First, I tried to sketch the hummingbirds, but they moved too fast for me to capture their likeness. I opted to try drawing the peacock instead. His slow strides and lack of flight made him the perfect model. I crouched down to his level while being careful not to touch the feces-covered ground. I took out my sketchbook and a pencil and Penelope did the same. I was unsure where to begin, so I glanced at her page for inspiration.
He noticed my wandering gaze and decided to assist me. "Let's start with simple shapes. What basic shapes can you identify?"
"The body kind of looks like an oval, and the neck is sort of S-shaped like a snake. The head is round, but pointy at the same time, like a teardrop," I observed.
"You have a great eye! Now, etch those shapes onto the page as lightly as you can and darken them once you're satisfied with the way it looks."
I followed her instructions, and soon I had a basic sketch of the body head, and neck that looked halfway decent.
"Let's start working on those feathers. Start with the largest ones at the base of the tail and work your way to the smaller ones at the tip."
I sketched the long curved shapes and tried to mimic the pattern to the best of my abilities. I also added the legs and feet along with some details on the face. I flipped the sketch around, so the peacock could view it. He pecked it and then let out a squawk of approval.
Penelope began coloring in her sketch with an indigo pencil.
I carefully mirrored her light strokes. "How do you make the colors look so vibrant?"
"Try blending different colors, start with the lightest hue, and fade into the darkest shade."
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For the next hour, my focus was zeroed in on the drawing. I seamlessly blended shades of indigo, midnight blue, cerulean, turquoise, lime, gold, and emerald until I was satisfied with the results. I wiped the sweat off my brow and rushed over to Penelope to show off my work.
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She let out a delighted gasp and pulled me into a tight hug. "Fierro! It's beautiful! You should be so proud of yourself!"
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An overwhelming sense of warmth flared in my chest. Is this what little kids feel like when their parents hang their artwork on the fridge? I wouldn't know. For the brief time, I knew my birth parents; they weren't the type to show any approval or support for my accomplishments. They claimed they were too busy for coddling. Somehow they always found the time to tell me I was worthless and would never amount to anything. I shook my head to wake myself from the terrible memories. It didn't matter what was said in the past. They were dead to me. I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, "Thank you, Penelope. Your kindness means a lot to me."
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We spent the rest of our time at the zoo in the aviaries sketching the different birds. By the end of the day, I had drawn a toucan, a macaw, a lovebird, an African pygmy goose, and a flamingo. With every sketch, my skills improved. Every new drawing looked slightly more accurate than the last. We worked on our sketches until the zookeepers came to kick us out at closing time.
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On our way back to the car I apologized for using up all of our time in the aviary.
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Penelope waved her hand dismissively. "Never apologize for being in a creative state of flow."
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When we got home I taped all of my artwork to the wall above my bed in a noticeable place for everyone to admire.
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In the following weeks, school let out for the summer and I spent my days sleeping in and going for long walks around the city, doodling the sights whenever I felt inspired. I got a summer job hauling bags of food at the pet store. It was grueling work, but I enjoyed visiting the animals every day. Penelope and I started hosting Mario Kart tournaments in our condo every Tuesday night. Don't be fooled by Penelope's kind demeanor; she is one of the fiercest competitors I've ever met. She doesn't just want to win, she seeks to obliterate the competition. Lucky for me, I am also a merciless force of nature when I'm on the racetrack. In the group homes where I grew up, the Wii was my foster parents' favorite tool for keeping the kids busy and out of trouble. I was the master of every game they had. It got to the point where none of the other children would play with me because they were too afraid of my awesomeness. Penelope was not intimidated by my skills. Our tournaments typically ended with us throwing all of our shells at each other until there was only one person left standing. She won some races, I almost won others. Someday I was finally going to win, then her reign of terror would finally be over. As time passed by I felt myself changing. After every day I spent with Penelope, I became a little less shy and I felt more secure. I found myself smiling and laughing a lot more than I ever did before. My hair now reached my eyebrow and was finally long enough to tame. It took some practice to find a style that looked good on me, but once I did I seemed to get compliments everywhere I went.
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"It looks like you're becoming a local heartthrob, Fierro," Penelope teased.
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I would act humble, but deep down I loved the rush of satisfaction that came with being noticed. That June and July had been the happiest time of my life. It was the closest I'd ever come to being a normal kid. When August rolled around things took a turn for the worst.
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It started late one night as I was dragging the trash out to the dumpster. Even after dark, the California heat was brutal and unforgiving. The sweltering humidity further exacerbated the foul odors emanating from the dumpster. When I went to open the lid, I spotted a flier for a community art gallery. I knew Penelope would love that, so I reached down to pick it up. Before I had the chance to grab it, someone else picked it up.
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He let out a scoff and read it aloud. "We invite all members of the community to showcase their artistic talents in our free open community art gallery. Whether you're a seasoned artist or just starting, we want to see your interpretation of landscapes with emotions. All types of paintings, from oils to watercolors, acrylics to pastels, are welcome. We want to celebrate the diversity of our community and the richness of its artistic expression." He crumpled up the flier and threw it at me. "Is this the kind of garbage you're into now? Are you the kind of guy who paints his feelings? I thought I raised you to be tougher than that."
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I looked up to see my father standing in front of me with a belittling expression on his face. My heart pounded so violently, I thought I might be having a heart attack. "What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be doing four more years. Please tell me you didn't break out!"
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"Don't be absurd. They let me out early, on good behavior. I tried to call you, but you didn't answer. You left me no choice but to track you down."
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After my mother died, my father was granted custody of me. He didn't know the first thing about raising children, and he barely had enough money to take care of himself, much less a child. This led him to take part in a major money laundering scheme, so he could afford to send me to daycare. Everything was going fine until the FBI caught wind of what he was doing, and sent him to prison. That's how I ended up in foster care. He was supposed to be in the middle of a fifteen-year sentence, but it appears that is no longer the case.
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I crossed my arms and tried to act tough. "What do you want from me?"
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He leaned against the dumpster and lit a cigar. "I want to see my son. Is that too much to ask? I haven't seen you in ages."
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I'd done my best to stay as far away from him as I could. I hadn't seen him since my social worker stopped forcing me to go to visitations. She noticed how miserable the visits made me and chose to spare me the pain.
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My father scanned me up and down appraisingly. "You've gotten fat," he remarked, his voice laced with disdain.
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I had put on some weight since he'd seen me last. My ribs no longer protruded from malnourishment and neglect. My shoulders grew broader and my arms became thicker. I was no longer the fragile wisp of a child he could bully and demean however he felt like. Every pound I had gained was a blessing because it meant I was no longer starving. "My weight is none of your business. I'm not having this conversation with you."
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"It was just an observation. You need to learn how to accept criticism. You'll never get anywhere in life if you keep being so sensitive."
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"It's better to be sensitive than a convicted felon."
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"Don't disrespect me!"
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"Or what? You'll hit me like you used to?"
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He took a step forward, his cigar smoke wafting into my face. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"I know exactly what I'm talking about. I remember every time you hit me, every time you belittled me, and made me feel worthless."
He looked away, a hint of shame flickering across his face. "I was a different person back then. I'm trying to fix things right now."
I scoffed. "Is that why you came here? To deliver a half-assed apology."
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He hesitated. "Not, entirely. I need to ask you for something."
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"What?" I said through clenched teeth, losing all patience for the good-for-nothing deadbeat I call dad.
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"Listen, I need to borrow some money."
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I let out a laugh so loud I startled myself. "You're delusional. What on earth makes you think I would ever give you a single cent?"
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He took a long drag of his cigar and released it in a pungent cloud of smoke. "My girlfriend is pregnant, and we can't afford to pay her medical bills. We have nothing, Fierro. I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't desperate."
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"Is the baby yours?" Was my dad having another child? He could even care for the one he had! I threw my hands up in the air. "You know what? I don't care! You abandoned me, and then you have the audacity to track me down and beg for money!"
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He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
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"I never want to speak to you again!"
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"Son." He took a step forward toward me.
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"Didn't you hear me the first time? Get out!" I threw an empty soda can at him.
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He raised his hands in surrender and began walking away. He didn't say a word, but he turned back to look at me one last time.
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"If I ever see you snooping around here again, I'll file a restraining order! Do you hear me?" I screamed into the darkness, but it was no use. He was already gone.
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I didn't tell Penelope about the confrontation with my father, but she could sense that I was quieter than usual. She didn't force me to share, and I appreciated that. I didn't want to talk about it. A feeling of guilt clawed at my gut. Maybe I should have given my dad some money. It's not the baby's fault my dad is a deadbeat and a dirtbag.
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I tried my best to forget all about my father and the conversation we'd had. I was doing a decent job at ignoring his existence until I got the phone call that changed everything. It happened in the middle of the night. I was too hot to sleep, so I sat at my desk making a watercolor painting of the night sky. Then my phone rang, startling me out of my deep concentration. I picked up my phone to see who was calling me at such an ungodly hour of the night. It was my social worker, Mindy. I felt a rising wave of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. It was uncharacteristic of her to call me so late. I knew something was wrong. My entire body trembled as I pressed the answer button. "Hey, Mindy. What's going on?"
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" Hello, Fierro. I'm sorry to call you this late, but I have some upsetting news to share with you."
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My heart pounded violently in a fast rhythm. I suddenly felt like I was going to vomit. Was I going to have to move again? "What's going on?"
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"It's about your father. He was run over by a drunk driver earlier tonight. He died on the way to the hospital. I'm so sorry."
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My entire body went numb. I had no idea how I was expected to respond to this information, so I said, "Thank you for telling me."
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"I'm going to speak with your foster mom to make sure you're receiving proper support during this difficult time. Please let me know if there's anything I can do for you."
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"Thanks. Have a good night."
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"Fierro, wait!"
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I hung up on her. I didn't want to talk. I needed to be alone with my thoughts for a while. As terrible as it sounds, the first emotion I felt was a relief. I wasn't being taken away from Penelope. I could stay here with her, but at what cost? My father was dead and one of the last things I ever said was, "I never want to see you again." I sat alone in silence, waiting to feel some overwhelming sense of grief or guilt, or any emotion at all, but deep down I felt nothing. Inside I just felt hollow. I expected Mindy to call back and scold me for hanging up on her, but she never did. Once I got tired of blankly staring at my bedroom ceiling, I tiptoed downstairs for a change of scenery.
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Penelope stood at the kitchen counter stirring a mug of coffee with a far-off look in her eyes. Once she heard me enter the kitchen, she rushed over and pulled me into the warmest of hugs. Tears dripped from her eyes as she held me close. "Fierro, Mindy told me the news. I'm so sorry. I know how you must be feeling right now.
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She didn't have a clue how I was feeling. I barely knew how I felt. Whatever emotion it was certainly wasn't sorrow. She seemed more upset about the loss than I was at the moment. And yet, after about a minute of silence, something overcame me. I hugged her back and let the tears fill my eyes. I wasn't crying for my father. I was crying for myself. I cried for my past self, the lonely child whose father was never there. I cried for my present self, who only wanted to be loved. I cried for my future self, who would never have the chance to make things right.
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Penelope stroked my hair as I sobbed into her shoulder. "You're going to be okay. I'm here. I got you."
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I stayed in my room for several days only coming out for occasional meals. I wasn't hungry most of the time. I took the week off from work. told my boss I'd be going out of town for the funeral. That was a lie, I had no intention of going to the funeral. I'd already missed the wake. It felt disrespectful to go see him after the way I ended things. I rolled over in bed and stared at the exotic bird calendar Penelope had bought for me. Today was August 5th, the day I'd been dreading. Not only was it the day of my father's funeral, but it was also my seventeenth birthday. Happy birthday to me, I guess. I used all my willpower to drag myself out of bed and down the stairs.
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When I came downstairs I was greeted with a stack of pancakes with a birthday candle sticking out of it. The words happy birthday were spelled out in maple syrup. I guess Penelope remembered what day it was. She'd gone out with friends last night. I had hoped she would sleep in and forget all about it. I had to practically push her out the door last night, so I could cry myself to sleep in peace.
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Penelope sat in the chair directly across from me and gave a comforting reassuring smile. Happy birthday, sweetheart."
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I forced a smile in return. "You remembered."
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"I would never forget it."
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Of course she wouldn't, she was too good of a mom to ever let it slip from her memory.
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She gently rubbed my wrist. "Listen, I'm not going to force you to go anywhere or do anything today, but if there is something you'd like to do, let me know, and I'll make it happen."
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I stared down at my plate of pancakes. "I'm not really in the mood to do anything special."
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She gave an understanding nod. "Alright, how about a walk?"
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"Just a walk? No surprises?"
"No surprises," She promised.
After breakfast, we slipped on our shoes and began our walk to the pier. The weather was perfect. The sky was a brilliant shade of baby blue that stretched as far as the eye could see, not a single cloud could be spotted along the horizon. Warm rays of golden sunlight illuminated the city in a warm glow. I cursed the sky for being so blue. How could everything be so beautiful on the day my father is going to be buried? Locals walked their dogs and tourists took selfies by the waterfront. Isn't it cruel how life goes on like nothing happened after you've lost everything? I stood at the end of the pier and watched as a father lifted his young son onto his shoulders so he could enjoy the ocean view. I averted my gaze and stared out at the still waters instead. It felt like the universe was giving me a colossal middle finger for ever believing I could've had a father like that.
"Do you mind if we stop for a moment?" Penelope asked.
"That's fine," I said as I gazed vacantly at the tranquil turquoise waters.
She sat on a wooden bench and pulled out her sketchbook along with a set of oil pastels. She motioned for me to sit next to her as she began sketching.
She ripped out a blank page and handed it to me without saying a word.
I glanced between the empty page and the peaceful sea. I wasn't in the mood to draw it as it was. I felt wrong to draw such a happy sight on a day like today. Instead, I chose the darkest, murkiest shades of gray, green, and navy. With harsh, powerful strokes I drew fierce powerful tidal waves crashing into sharp, jagged rocks beneath a blackened sky. Using the white pastel I added fragmented bolts of lightning tearing through the sky. I focused all the anger and heartbreak I felt toward my father and directed it into the piece. Once the drawing was completed I let out an exhausted breath. I felt like I had just fought a war.
Penelope glanced over at my work. She didn't say anything, but she gave me an approving nod. We spent the rest of our time together enjoying each other's company in silence until we began our walk home. Penelope finally broke the silence as we walked past the cemetery. "Do you mind if we stop for a moment?"
I eyed her wearily, but I didn't argue. I didn't know what to expect when she led me deep into the cemetery. I feared maybe she'd force me to attend my father's burial, but instead, she led me to a joint tombstone that read, Jeffrey and Maria Kingston. Loving Mother and Father. Penelope set down a drawing of a dark-skinned little girl being held in a loving embrace by her parents on top of the grave. She shed a single tear and then continued our walk home as if nothing had happened.
"You're an orphan," I said. It wasn't a question, it was an observation.
She nodded. "I am. My father was a soldier. He gave his life in the line of duty. My mother died of cancer not long after. I grew up in foster care just like you. I never had anyone to care for me. That's why I became a foster mom; so I could make sure another orphan could have a better life than I did."
Hearing her story made me view Penelope in a new light. I always believed her joy and kindness came from a place of naivety. I thought she was happy because she didn't know what it was like to suffer, but I was wrong. She understood pain more intimately than most people do and she chose to be happy despite everything she'd been through. "Thank you for giving me a chance. I can hardly remember what my mother was like, but if I did have a mom I would want her to be exactly like you."
"You don't need to thank me. It's been an honor to call you my son."
As we walked back to her house, I couldn't help but think about the drawing she had left on her parents' grave. It was a powerful reminder of the love and connection that existed between families, even when they were separated by death. And it made me realize that, in some small way, I had found a new family with Penelope.
When we got home, Peneolpe set the crumpled flyer for the community gallery on the table. Without any preamble, she said, "I think you should submit one of your pieces to the gallery."
"Me? No. I brought that flyer home for you. I'm not any good."
"You don't need to be modest. I've seen your recent work. You're very talented. Besides, this gallery is open for everyone, you don't have to be a pro to submit."
"I'll think about it."
She smiled. "That's all I ask."
For the fifth night in a row, I couldn't sleep. So I dug through my portfolio for something worthy of being displayed in a gallery. My eyes caught on the drawing of the stormy sea I made today. Plenty of my drawings were pretty, but one was meaningful. It was infused with all of the grief, anger, and sorrow, I was experiencing, and that made it significant. At that moment, I decided this was the piece I needed to submit to the gallery.
Over the next few days, I worked on the drawing, refining and perfecting it until it felt like a true representation of everything I was feeling. Finally, I mustered up the courage to submit it to the community gallery, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. A few weeks went by, and I received an email that left me ecstatic - my piece had been accepted for the gallery exhibition. I couldn't believe it. On the day of the exhibition, I arrived early, dressed in my best clothes, my heart pounding with anticipation. As I walked through the gallery, I saw my drawing on display alongside other beautiful pieces of art. It was a surreal moment, one that I had never imagined possible. I looked around and saw Penelope beaming at me from across the room, her eyes full of pride. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had accomplished something truly meaningful.
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I looked at the empty spot by my beside my painting where my father could have been standing in another life If things were different. If he were a better father, a better man. Now the thought of him didn't fill me with the same level of rage and sorrow like it used to, and that was a start. I wasn't plagued with the same sense of hopelessness I used to feel because I knew Penelope would never abandon me like he did.
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A professional-looking man, wearing a sharp business suit and designer glasses stopped in front of my painting to carefully appraise it. He stared at it for a long time, not saying a word or showing any kind of emotion.
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"Is it any good?" I asked nervously, unsure of how to react when someone scrutinizes your artwork.
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"Did you make this?" He asked.
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I nodded.
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"You know, I see a dozen paintings of the pier a day. They all want to paint the pretty scenery. Yours is special, It's not just pretty I can tell there's a deeper meaning buried in here. I'd like to buy it."
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I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "You really want to buy it?"
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"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't mean it. You've got a bright future, kid."
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I smiled at Penelope and for once I believed that was true.
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