All the leaves have fallen from their branches. A thousand brown holes peeked through the snow white bark of the birch trees. Several crumpled brown plants rose up against the tree trunks. Without their shimmering coats of green, the trees stood humble and cold. Vibrant hues of orange and red danced among the clouds, painting the sky overhead. As the sun slowly set its colors dispersed, turning the sky a light royal blue.
Sabora watched out her window at the passing scenery. Water still and silent, preparing for the ice that soon would cover its glossy surface. Cornfields long harvested, the stalks wilted and brown, hardly three inches tall. Towns that seemed dead, devoid of life and breath.
She lay her palm on the window, then removed it, smiling at the fingerprints her hand left on the cold glass. It was all strangely beautiful, in a way few could explain.
“It's nearing winter again,” her dad said from the drivers seat.
Sabora let loose an exaggerated sigh. Her dad chuckled at her sarcasm.
“Lets just be glad we are leaving,” he added.
She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. His white tee-shirt was tight around his chest, and his short, sandy hair was messier than usual. He flashed a grin at her, then turned back to the road.
“How much longer until we are home? I need to paint something,” Sabora asked.
“Oh, about twelve hours,” he answered her in all honesty.
She lay back on her seat in frustration and noticed a couple raindrops splatter on the windshield. She pushed her short, black hair behind her ear, as she did when she was angry. A piece of string floated to lay on her lap, and she frowned. The thin leather gloves she always wore were fraying at the bottom. She needed new ones soon, or who knew what would happen. She turned to her dad and crossed her arms.
“Next year, for vacation, can we please either take a plane or go somewhere closer to home? Twelve hours is just way too long to drive,” Sabora pleaded.
He glanced at her and half smiled. “I'll think about it. But only if you promise to buy me an I-pad this year for Christmas.”
“Dad,” Sabora cried.
“What? It is a perfectly reasonable suggestion,” he said as a matter-of-fact.
“I've had it with you dad. I am broke and you have hardly enough money to buy us these vacations year after year. Grandfather doesn't have money to spend on us anymore either. So come on. Let it go.”
“But...”
“Don't but me, dad. Until you run into a whole bunch of money, no I-pad for you, and no cell phone for me, all right?”
“Fine,” he fake pouted.
Sabora laughed and caught sight of a red Beetle car on the highway. She leaned over and punched her dad on the arm.
“Red punch bug, no punch back!” She laughed and her dad perked up, trying to catch sight of another one she he could punch his daughter.
After a couple seconds, he gave up. They both noticed the haze of gray ahead of them on the highway. The raindrops had increased since Sabora had first spotted them. Bracing himself, Sabora's dad drove headfirst into the torrential downpour.
Sabora was yanked from her dreams as her dad pulled into their suburban driveway. The sun was out, bathing the house in gold. It was a fair sized house for the two of them, painted a hideous lime green with white shutters. She was exited to be home, and somehow exited to get back to school. Maybe it was because she was starting her junior year, or maybe it was that she was going to see her crush after the long summer she had enjoyed. But other than that, it was her teenage job to hate school. Though, as a secret between her and her dad, she loved school.
Her dad opened the trunk and removed the baggage, Sabora gathered her things from the front seat. Purse on her shoulder and bag in one hand, she grabbed the keys from her dad and unlocked the house. Running inside the African themed living room, she set her stuff down, then ran back out to help her dad bring in the luggage. Only after that was finished did she dare to make her way to her studio.
She stood before the door, not having been in the room since school had ended in June. Now she was here, finally allowed to be free again. Turning the knob, the door swung inward. Sabora breathed in the scent of unused paint, of neatness and of still new canvas. Strolling inside, a giddy smile plastered on her lips, she lifted a paintbrush. Its black bristles danced around when she rubbed her finger along them. She held it to her face, feeling the smoothness of it upon her cheek. Jumping into action, she filled a cup with water, opened her paints, retrieved her paint palette from the top shelf across the room and set up an untouched canvas. Dripping brown, black, orange and red upon the palette, Sabora began to paint.
She was lost in time. She did not know who she was, or where she was. All that was there was the paint and the paintbrush upon the canvas. The only thing in her mind was her design, her masterpiece. Her legs ached, and still she did not sit. Her mind wandered, yet every time she called it back. Her arms felt leaden, but she pushed herself to finish.
After what seemed an eternity, Sabora lay down her paints and sat on the floor, marveling at her newest piece. It was of the forest, the leafless trees she had seen while driving home. In the center was a bonfire, free and yet controlled. Like the fire inside a humans soul, the fire inside the heart.
Sabora felt her throat swell at that moment. A single tear rolled down her cheek. She remembered the last time she had seen her mother paint. The last time her mother had touched these paintbrushes before she left. Before she'd had enough and walked out on them. Sabora left motherless at the age of twelve. Her dad left with a child and no way to care for it. It had been five years now, and even though Sabora missed her mother greatly, there was no way she would ever forgive her for leaving.
She jumped when the door opened. Her dads head popped into the room.
“Are you hungry? You have been in here for almost three hours,” he said.
Sabora nodded, still sitting on the floor, her body and mind weary. He stepped in the door and nodded towards the canvas, which faced away from him.
“Can I see it?” he asked her.
“Yeah, it's done. I hope you like it,” Sabora said, ancy to see her dads reaction to the painting. He stepped around her to see it and when he did, he was stunned into silence. Sabora could not figure out if this meant he was amazed or disappointed. She assumed he was amazed, and her assumption was proven correct a moment later.
“This is beautiful. How do you do it?” he wondered quietly, looking at Sabora for an answer.
She shrugged. “I guess it just comes to me.”
“You are so like your mother. I see her in you. I see her in here,” he whispered, gesturing at the painting and the room they were in.
Sabora stood and saw that her dad had tiny, crystalline tears on his cheek. She cocked her head and smiled sadly at him. Raising her gloved hand, she wiped the tears away.
“Dad, we don't need her. We have each other,” Sabora whispered as she embraced her dad, never wanting to let him go.
