M

Another month went by; she woke up with teary eyes once again. The pain was so that she wanted to disappear into her imaginary world—a life she had created in the past few months where she could, once again, feel joy and happiness.

“Honey, breakfast is ready,” said her father from downstairs.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied.

She went back to sleep, visualizing the warmth of her mother next to her.

A few hours later, her father went to Colette’s room to check up on her; he opened the door and saw his daughter fast asleep. He stood in the doorway, observing her, and finally entered her room. There were paintings everywhere. He walked to the easel and saw the unfinished portrait of his wife. He looked at the eyes in the image; emotion flooded him. The details in the painting were impressive.

“Honey?” he said as he touched her shoulder.

She moved slightly, “Hi Papa,” she replied.

He looked at his daughter lovingly, “You need to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry; I want to sleep,” replied Colette.

“You can’t go on like this; it’s been months; you need to get out of bed, honey. Maybe we can go for a walk today?”

“No, I don’t want to,” she replied as she tucked herself under the blanket, once again.

He left her room in despair.

The next morning, her father wrote in a little black book before wrapping it up in the living room. He went to his daughter’s room, knocked, and entered. She was awake, sitting in bed.

“Hi honey, I received this package for you today,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, surprised at receiving something.

She took the package but didn’t open it. Her father looked at her curiously, wondering if she would, but he could feel she wanted to be alone.

“Okay, I will see you later,” said her father as he left.

She waited a moment and then opened the parcel. It was a little black book with the letter M engraved on it. She saw a map; it looked like a scavenger hunt. Her eyes brightened up for the first time in months. The map looked old; it was a drawing of her own house. The first clue stated: I am near the fountain, I am pink, and I love the sun and water. She got out of bed, went downstairs in her pajamas, and went to the garden. Her father stood in the kitchen pretending like he didn’t see her and smiled.

In the garden, Colette was looking at her mother’s favorite rose bush near the fountain. She looked around the roses, looked beside the fountain, and then saw some dirt that looked freshly moved. She put her hand in the soil and found another clue. The clue read: I am in the kitchen, I am in a jar, my mother is a hen, and I am opened every day. Colette knew instantly that the next clue was in the egg jar in the kitchen. She quickly went to the kitchen and opened it. Her father didn’t say anything but simply observed his daughter. She moved the eggs and, at the bottom of the container, found the next clue. The clue read: I am green, my environment is humid, and my friends can swim. Colette thought about this for a moment and then went to the fountain in the garden. She looked at the fish swim and saw the waterlilies. She lifted the first one, but nothing, then the second and finally under the third saw a clue wrapped in a plastic bag. She opened it and read: I am hidden, people use me to open things, and I am under a heavyweight. Colette paused for a moment in the garden, looked at the flowers while taking in the sun. She smiled, she breathed, she felt alive for the first time in a long while. She walked to the apple tree and ate an apple. She sat on the grass and thought about her mother; when they would sit together, talk and enjoy the garden and sun. Her mother spent hours planting flowers and humming outside; it was her safe haven.

After a while, Colette got up and went to the house entrance; she lifted a heavy pot next to the entrance door and saw the hidden key she had put there with her mother when she was a child. She found the next clue. It read: I am under the roof, I am light, and I am beige. She thought for a while and knew she had to go to the attic.

The last time she had been to the attic, she was with her mother. It was a few months ago when she had finished high school; they had spent the day together packing away old school books. It was the day before the tragic event.

Colette hadn’t thought about the day spent with her mother because the loss she ensued was too painful. She remembered small details of that day, how her mother looked at her, the way she smiled, and how she made her feel. Her mother believed in her more than anyone else and had always encouraged Colette to paint from a very young age.

After a moment of apprehension, she walked towards the attic. She stood at the top of the steps below the hatched door and finally entered. She saw an envelope on the floor; she picked it up and read: To Colette, From Martine.

She sat on the floor, tears flooding, afraid to open the letter. After a long moment of uncertainty, she opened it and read:

My love,

If you are reading this letter, this illness took me away from you too soon. I want you to know that you are the best thing that ever happened to me. You have brought more love and happiness to my life than you will ever know. The love I have for you is endless. I have never met an artist like you, continually creating and brightening everything you touch. I have found that imagining and creating is the only thing that would make me smile in the darkest times. Do not give up on everything you love because I am no longer here physically. I will forever be with you; I will eternally think of you and love you.

Your father and I have economized everything we have so you can go to art school and be happy; here is a check for $20000, use it well, my love.

I love you always.

Love,

Mama

Colette finished reading the letter and cried for a long while. She missed her mother deeply but knew that her mother was right. She needed to start painting again and go to art school.

She went to see her father without saying a word and hugged him tightly; he looked at her and smiled.

“Everything will be okay,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied and smiled.

She went to her room, looked at her unfinished canvas, and started painting again while the sun glowed through her bedroom window.