First thing Sunday morning, I dig my old sketchbooks out of Una’s attic and haul them down to the studio. My chat with Una was inspiring. I’m determined to assess my former skills with an unemotional eye and brace myself for disappointment.
But the work is better than I remembered.
There are a number of sketches that I think are really wonderful.
I’d forgotten how often I’d drawn Una or Eileen. There are sketches of Mike, and some of my other friends. It’s the ones of Mike I keep coming back to. I even got his little smile right in this one, the one that makes his eyes smoulder.
Besides people, there are old trees and Big Red and some streetscapes of Empire. I recognize Abbie and Mike’s grandmother’s house with its glorious gardens, that lady’s pride and joy. There are sketches of the pier at Port Cavendish, some fishing boats coming in, some storms blowing across the lake.
I was sure that I was remembering myself with more skill than I had, but I was wrong.
I was pretty good.
Something changes after I see that and the drawing comes easier today. The lines go the way I wanted them to be more often. Maybe I’m remembering something or getting my groove back. Maybe I’m learning it all over again. Maybe I’m trusting in myself again.
Either way, I’m happy with my work and happy in my studio. I hear Merrie in her apartment and then in the kitchen downstairs, but we each stick to our own activities. I have no idea where Colin is and it doesn’t matter. There’s just the paper and the pencil and the images forming under my hand.
I’m happy that Sierra is with Mike and completely confident of her welfare.
Today is for me.
I draw.
When Mike sends me a picture of Sierra laughing, I smile at the sight of her happiness. She’s at Una’s place, so I’ll guess they brought the trailer home. I reply with a thumbs-up and get back to work.
It’s lovely to have the luxury of time to think about drawing again, to clean up properly, even to daydream a bit. The day feels endless and marvelous, a gift from Mike.
I linger in the studio long after I might have been expected home. I want to see Mike, but I suspect I’m going to cry if the trailer is there and Sierra is happy about it. I love that he made this happen, but I worry about counting on him too much.
About showing too much.
Then I think about Una’s advice and scold myself. He’s in our lives now, and the Mike I know isn’t going to vanish on his daughter. If he has to choose between his two families, it will be what it will be. I’ve dealt with everything else life has tossed me and I’ll deal with that, too.
I head back to Una’s. The sun has set and the air hascooled. There are dark shadows beneath the trees. It always feels to me like Una lives in an enchanted forest, but especially so in the evenings. I love the two-track that winds its way back to her cabin from the road, the wildflowers growing in the middle of the drive and on either side. I love that you can’t see her place from the road, that it feels like stepping into another world. The trees that surround her house are tall and old, and the air is always cool. There’s always a scent of pines.
In the evening, the shadows are purple and deep blue. Velvety. Secretive. In darkness, the sounds of the forest change. Sometimes you can hear frogs in the creek. It’s not uncommon to hear an owl, or to see one flying slowly toward you. Their wings flap so slowly that they could be flying in slow motion – or a vision from another time and place. In a fairy tale, they’d be a warning or an apparition.
I don’t see an owl tonight, but I hear one. There are fireflies, glimmering on either side of the car. I slow down, because I saw a doe a week ago and I don’t want to injure any of the creatures that make their home around Una’s. I hear the rustling of small animals in the undergrowth.
I round the last curve and see the trailer, just as I imagined it, and my heart jumps to my throat. It could be another fairy tale vision. It’s tucked beneath the trees, twenty steps away from Una’s porch, and already looks as if it was always there. There are some lights on inside it, casting a welcome golden glow. The striped awning is extended but it seems to have a frame, one I don’t remember from the lot. There are two white Muskoka chairs beneath the awning, framing the door. It looks idyllic.
At first, I think the air beneath the awning is full of fireflies, because there are dozens of little flickering lights there. But that makes no sense. They prefer to fly above the gardenor in the forest, plus the ones under the awning are blinking more slowly.
That’s when I realize they’re fairy lights. They’re hung in the chaotic loops that Sierra favors and there are a lot of them. I smile as I park because that’s always been our sign that wherever we’re living is home.
I take a deep breath.Home.
Our very own place.
There’s no sign of Una, but our old fairy lights are on inside her closed porch. I guess she’s there, watching, drinking herbal tea and maybe napping. Mike is under the awning, almost hidden in the shadows. He’s holding Una’s old wooden ladder for Sierra and as I watch, she plugs in another string and more lights flicker to life.
“Enough, already,” Mike says.
“One more strand,” Sierra negotiates.
“You’re going to need sunscreen at night if you keep this up,” he grumbles and she laughs at him. When he grins at her, indulgence in his expression, I bite my lip and blink back my tears.
“The solar panel says a maximum of six. This is only five,” she informs him.
