Post by Kari on Feb 16, 2009 3:39:56 GMT
FAITH
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preface
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preface
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The smell of wet paint on fresh paper was to me like crack was to my mother. We both lived on it, thrived on it, survived on it. Drawing was a drug that's got me to where I am today and I'm forever thankful that Edward caught me thieving that paper that one time because I'd never have met Maisy otherwise and, without her encouragement to better myself and my art, I'd be nowhere.
In a world where the words “I love you” were completely foreign to me, Maisy opened up my eyes and I blossomed into someone that was able to give and receive, that was able to feel love – one of the many things my mother tried to avoid by drowning herself in her drug-infested world. As a result of that world, she'd never taken care of me and I'd had to learn to be a mature adult long before any child should.
I had mastered the art of masks and bluffing by the age of five. I'd realised that I was the mother of the household by the age of seven and so I'd undertaken all of the tasks that would have been expected of Freya, my mother, and kept the house running. We lived hand to mouth with little to no money left over and most certainly none for my education. I wasn't able to go to school to learn the things other kids my age would have learned. Instead, I learned how to take care of myself, that acting cutesy and sobby alternatively with the landlord would help us to live in our house for just that little bit longer.
We were thrown out of our first real home when I was six. Before that, my mother had taken me with her on her various jaunts around the country, living day by day, and trying her best to raise me in the only way she knew how. Then, I'd packed our bags and shepherded my mother out of the house, her in her drug-induced stupor and my hand threaded tightly through hers as she clung to the door frame, desperate not to leave.
There had been happier times, of course, times when I was confident that I had my whole future mapped out in front of me – that destiny was giving me favourable cards as opposed to the rough hand I'd been dealt at the beginning of my journey in this world. I remember my mother singing karaoke, a silly grin on her face. I remember giggling madly at the way she attempted to gracefully exit the stage, but how she failed miserably at it and fell flat on her face.
She'd gotten up, laughed and dusted herself off before bowing to the audience who rose to their feet and roared with laughter and applause. For a moment there, I'd felt a surge of pride. She was my mother, that woman up there. She'd come down the stairs, making a beeline for me, the crowd parting around her and it was in that instant that I felt a true sense of happiness that I wanted to freeze in time like a dragonfly in amber.
That was the last perfect moment I remember having with my mother. Nowadays what we have is limited to my memories of her, memories of an earlier time. And when I need a reminder of what had been, I just dive into my memories and pretend that everything is okay.
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