Immutable

“Here, grab the paintbrush like this.”

She preceded to wrap his small, uncoordinated fingers around a thin wooden paintbrush with a splayed straw tip. She thought it looked like a long-haired women in a wind tunnel, all contained within her infants fist.

“M-mom, h-help me please.”

“Sure sweety.” She guided his hand to dip the long-haired wind blown women into a small blotch of red paint. The boy squealed with glee. She then pulled his hand across the blank canvas, creating a red line down the center that bifurcated nothingness into two blocks of nothingness.

The sun refracted off the window pane onto the canvas, coloring the two blocks of nothing with pale, warm yellow light. The boy clumsily moved the paintbrush to the blotch of yellow paint and made crude smears onto the incident light.

My how quickly kids learn, she thought.

“Alright, let’s go eat some food and we can paint again later.” Her son continued to paint on the canvas with a serene focus. Her mother, begrudgingly, pulled him away from the canvas. This, of course, was followed but a screech that one might find emanating from the pits of hell. What a juxtaposition; devilish screams from a plump, round child that seemed so pure and angelic. How absurd.

She hustled the baby down the hallway, patting his back and muttering comforting words to her young son. One upside of having a very small home is that the distance to the kitchen was small.

Patiently she fed the young boy as he started to calm. She watched him move his food around. How cute, this little one.

He looked at her endearingly. He then picked up some cereal, then promptly threw it on the ground. She let out a sigh of frustration. She bent down to pick it up, and as she went to put it back on his plate, she saw a strange sight. Her son was holding an imaginary paintbrush and started painting in the air. He raised and lowered his hand as if drawing a vertical line. The whole time he maintained the same placid, serene focus he had before, interspersed with giggles and squeals of glee. My son might be weird, she thought.

The boy began drawing whenever he had the opportunity. As the years passed, quickly as they do with young children, he became more precise with his brush strokes and more creative with his color palette. His mother watched with fascination laden with fatigue.

As with many interests of growing children, his intense interest with painting waned. Other things held his interest, such as science and mathematics, sports with his friends, and the inexplicable allure of girls.

The boy and his mom continued to explore their small bubble of the universe, learning from each other and enjoying each others company. They didn’t ignore the outside world actively, but were simply caught up with their own lives. His mom sold supplies at the art store, painting in the backroom when time became idle.

“Mom, do you think I could borrow some of your art supplies? I want to draw an oil painting.”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve been interested in painting, I’m excited to see what you draw.”

“I’ll try my best.”

The boy walked to his room. His walls were covered with Van Gogh and Rembrandt paintings. A small speaker played a piano concerto playlist. He often preferred to wear tight exercise clothes with muted colors. The outfits made him feel like a character from Star Trek, transporting him from his normal life for a few seconds every morning.

He sat down in an unforgiving wooden chair and slowly leaned into his chemistry homework. He zoned out as he completed it, coming to when the assignment was complete. He leaned back and looked out the window and a dark sky bearing down on a concrete packed landscape, feeling claustrophobic. This doesn’t feel correct, he thought.

Time unfolded in waves of desperation followed by excitement. When his mother brought home some spare art supplies, a wave of hesitant excitement overcame the boy. Perhaps this could be his escape.

The boy set up a blank canvas in a small living room free of furniture. His mom was able to bring home a dull gray paint, a blood-red type maroon, and a solid black. When constrained by color and physical space does the mind become most creative.

The boy let his thoughts wander, his brush being dipped and dragged across the canvas following his thoughts like a ball being dragged by a string. His mom leaned against the doorframe, feeling nostalgia for the serene demeanor her son has when he paints.

Out of nothing appeared an intricate red and black column built of interlocking cubes on a pale grey canvas. The boy snapped back to reality to the painting he produced. What an absurd drawing, he thought.

“It’s pleasing to look at, which is really the best we can hope for in a painting.” His mom said, turning back towards the kitchen. “Let’s eat and celebrate the return of the painter.”

“Sounds good to me.” The boy said. He stood up from the small wooden stool he was painting on. He walked to the kitchen with an intangible confidence and feeling of fulfillment. He looked back at the painting from across the room, shaking his head to verify what he saw was real.

The painting remained on the canvas, but mirror to the painting was the object he drew, sitting on the windowsill against a pale grey sky.

“Come on, the food is getting cold.”

“One second.” He jogged over to the windowsill. He reached out his hand to the object and picked it up. It felt jagged and smooth in his hand. He forcefully suppressed his astonishment. “What, uh, what’s for dinner?”

“Rice and veggies, same old same old. Life’s full of sameness isn’t it?” She suspiciously inspected her son. He was staring past her weighed down with thought. How fun it is to tease out a child’s burdens.

“What do you think of your painting? Is your creativity flowing back?”

“Yeah, it was really nice actually. Thank you for helping me bring it back. Something is strange, there’s a hole in the sameness.”

“What do you mean?”

“Um, give me some time to think it over and then I’ll tell you, or show you, rather.”

“I patiently await the escape from sameness.” She smiled facetiously. She must pull out this oddity quickly. William might have finally discovered it.