Emmanuella was elated. Staring at the colours, smiling as they dried. She floated through the house. Down the stairs, silent as the world around her, she took herself outside, and stared at the cascading shades of blue in the sky. She felt as complete as her work.
Lost in the moment, caught in a feeling, she didn’t say a word to anyone. Didn’t mention a whispering hand of her intention before wheeling her bicycle towards the gate in the back fence, and setting off. Forgoing the needless dance of permission and autonomy she already knew she had, with the weight of her mother’s worries. She was called to the sunlight. Called to a world she’d spent her entire day shut away from while exploring the alchemy of her pigments. She needed the wind across her skin. The sway of the tiny hair on her arms dancing in those breathy, invisible colours. She needed the time alone to recharge, unhindered by conversation or opinion.
The pressure of the bike pedals felt incredible as she set in motion over the cracked pavement down the lane. Wound muscles stretched as the bicycle pumped forward. The chain’s tension gave as the rhythmic bite of teethy gears eased with speed. With a gentle squeeze on her brakes she rounded the end of the alley, looked both ways, and set off. The smooth paved road soothed and the tranquillity of the ride washed over Emmanuella.
She loved it all. The variations of temperature over the asphalt, ripples of light as she rode between the shadows and the sun. Lost in the moment, swimming with pride over her most recent piece, with herself as artist. Experiencing a euphoric harmonization with her deepest calling. It rattled her from the bottom of her spin to the top of her crown. A rapture she couldn’t put to words, couldn’t put to page with any medium. Others would strain to describe the feelings equating it with falling in love, but it was more. Deeper. Internal. A love of self, of an instance, a secret exuberance impossible to share. She’d never be able to describe it to Charlie, nor her father, or mother, Jeffrey was hopeless. Her heart was bursting. She couldn’t contain it. Emmanuella breathed deep, and exhaled, her smile somehow only brighter.
She rode to the park, popped over the curb onto the grass, felt the tension and textures of the landscape. Parked herself in an empty patch of sunlight away from anyone else, tipped her bicycle over, and laid down to stare at the clouds. The light was warm on her cheeks. She beamed. School was going well. She felt appreciated. Her books were good. She was well stocked on paint and easels, and on a creative roll. Everything was ok, and she relished it.
Overjoyed with the opportunity of her own company, with a chance to think, and dream, she closed her eyes. Studied the rolling hues behind her eyelids. She thought about the colours of the wind. Of the whispers between her warm sweaty hair beneath her helmet on the ride. The crackling of the gears, ticking spins of the wheels. Cracking her lashes open she saw the sunlight on her nose through their striking dark lines. As her eyes adjusted back to focus under the flooding rays she did her best to catch the colour pulsations, and commit them to memory. She looked over at how the sun amplified the cherry red paint vibrating across the bike. Turning from the glare, resting from its etch, she rolled again and gazed upon the reflecting minting green hues of grass blurring against the whites of her shirt.
A drifting cloud covered the light, and the greens diluted to muted, hard pearled whites. The scent of grass sprang like a symphony as Emmanuella rolled to her back and returned her gaze skyward to the little puff blocking her beloved sun. Watching its wisps brighten remembered the lineny beige of a fresh canvas leaning against the wall in her studio, patiently waiting for its place upon her easel. She arched her back deeper in the lawn reluctant to leave the soft nestled blades. But the call to colour grew ever sweeter.
Like the Spring, she rose. It took a few cartwheels, and skips before she was able to lift her bike, and admit a graceful defeat back to the demands of the brush. The serene joy of pedalling rushed back immediately. She strove towards the longest route back possible, aiming to circle around the further point of their block, and relish a few more minutes in existence. The pull from creation to create was strong. The muse was singing loud. Choruses of the colours of the ride. The feeling of flying tantalized as the pedals coasted without resistance and Emmanuella glided over the sidewalks. Confidence in her abilities, and her body, built as her legs pumped. It only compounded the desire to paint. She cut faster, changing her gears, racing home rather than ride onwards.
The bicycle toppled in a heap as she burst through the gate, startling Rosie. Doors slammed, the dog barked, her mother called, the little artist deaf to it all, desperate to capture the here and now. To battle the blank page with her brush. An hour had passed, and a world had turned, without a word.Thanks for reading! Be sure to check out the rest of the The Haés’s chronicles.
-Mr. Write