I force myself out of bed, pushing thoughts of my Father from my head. I keep the shower cold, hoping the water will somehow snap me back to life. It doesn’t work. I don’t bother shaving, get dressed and head to work. I start thinking about the day ahead of me, what meetings I have, what tasks I have to accomplish, but my thoughts are constantly interrupted with the bombardment of memories.
Fishing trips.
Camp fire laughter.
Dinner table conversations.
Dad’s firm hand on my shoulder.
Phone rings as I step out of the car, Blocked Caller, again. I silence the call.
The day goes by at a crawl, every phone conversation, every discussion, every email typed or instant message answered is done through a grey fog of fatigue. I feel disconnected, far away.
I sit down in a thousand year old chair covered in orange fabric and brace myself for the three o clock “Weekly Service Production Change Management Team Meeting”. Any meeting involving more than five people always devolves into a train wreck of badly worded ideas and snarky comments, this one has fourteen attendees.
Lost in the droning voice of poorly thought out arguments and ridiculous bullet points, my mind wanders and I start doodling. I feel a tingle in the back of my neck as the entire meeting melts around me and I feel and think of nothing. An invisible bubble forms around me, sealing in the pain and anguish, the hurt and confusion. Everything disappears and at the same time appears vividly. Laina’s distance, my confusion, the trips to different realities, my Father’s death, it all swirls around me like a vortex.
The wave soon passes and the bubble pops, I lean back in my chair and lift my head, eyes focus as I snap back to reality. It’s sitting there in front of me, my meeting agenda, once a clean sheet of paper with a stack of talking points, now a perfect drawing of Laina and my Father looking up at me. It’s a pure work of art leaked from the end of my ball point pen. I can’t draw; I haven’t doodled more than stick figures since High School. The image staring up at me was something created by a real artists with years of experience, with training and practice and purpose.
It is something drawn by Stoner-Artist-Me.
Overcome by fear I stand from my old shitty chair and leave in the middle of the meeting. I pace back and forth in the hallway, my mind racing with questions.
My phone rings, without even thinking I pick it up.
“What?” Agitation seeps from my voice.
“Why have you been avoiding my calls?” It’s a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar, yet I can't seem to place it.
“Who the hell is this?” I am in no mood for mystery.
“Don’t ignore me for a week and then pretend like you don’t know who I am!”
It hits me like a flood; her tear filled eyes, straight brown hair, awkward smile. “Amber?”
Fishing trips.
Camp fire laughter.
Dinner table conversations.
Dad’s firm hand on my shoulder.
Phone rings as I step out of the car, Blocked Caller, again. I silence the call.
The day goes by at a crawl, every phone conversation, every discussion, every email typed or instant message answered is done through a grey fog of fatigue. I feel disconnected, far away.
I sit down in a thousand year old chair covered in orange fabric and brace myself for the three o clock “Weekly Service Production Change Management Team Meeting”. Any meeting involving more than five people always devolves into a train wreck of badly worded ideas and snarky comments, this one has fourteen attendees.
Lost in the droning voice of poorly thought out arguments and ridiculous bullet points, my mind wanders and I start doodling. I feel a tingle in the back of my neck as the entire meeting melts around me and I feel and think of nothing. An invisible bubble forms around me, sealing in the pain and anguish, the hurt and confusion. Everything disappears and at the same time appears vividly. Laina’s distance, my confusion, the trips to different realities, my Father’s death, it all swirls around me like a vortex.
The wave soon passes and the bubble pops, I lean back in my chair and lift my head, eyes focus as I snap back to reality. It’s sitting there in front of me, my meeting agenda, once a clean sheet of paper with a stack of talking points, now a perfect drawing of Laina and my Father looking up at me. It’s a pure work of art leaked from the end of my ball point pen. I can’t draw; I haven’t doodled more than stick figures since High School. The image staring up at me was something created by a real artists with years of experience, with training and practice and purpose.
It is something drawn by Stoner-Artist-Me.
Overcome by fear I stand from my old shitty chair and leave in the middle of the meeting. I pace back and forth in the hallway, my mind racing with questions.
My phone rings, without even thinking I pick it up.
“What?” Agitation seeps from my voice.
“Why have you been avoiding my calls?” It’s a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar, yet I can't seem to place it.
“Who the hell is this?” I am in no mood for mystery.
“Don’t ignore me for a week and then pretend like you don’t know who I am!”
It hits me like a flood; her tear filled eyes, straight brown hair, awkward smile. “Amber?”
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