Ryan stared at his reflection, wavy and distorted through the ripples of the
river. The sun beat down on the back of his neck, but he had other things on his
mind.
He could still see the fury in his father's eyes when he had discovered the
sketches. He had screamed until Ryan was sure his eyes were going to pop out of
his skull. Ryan was deaf to what he yelled; he could only stare at his father's
ever-reddening face.
The room was white; shredded papers fluttered through the air, creating a
suffocating whirlwind. Ryan stood motionless as his father tore through hundreds
upon hundreds of his sketches. His face showed no emotion, the only clue to his
despair was a slight coloring of his cheeks.
Ryan had always been a quiet kid. He'd never had many friends and made
little effort to make any. He mostly kept to himself and rarely spoke at all.
Most of his free time was spent drawing. He wanted to capture every moment,
recreate it through the tip of his pen. His artwork was a history book for him,
each drawing calling up a different time in his life, a different memory.
The floor was flooded in a sea of white. Ryan stared down at the white
specks, recognizing scraps of his different sketches. He could just make out a
few of his pictures: his family at his brother's football game; the view from
his back window; the riverbank; the bald head of the school principle. To the
side of his foot lay a very tiny scrap of paper, with two eyes on it. They were
dark and intelligent eyes, a layer of resigned sadness underneath their harsh
stare. He knew immediately they belonged to his father.
"Why can't the boy just act like a normal kid his age," said his father.
"Why isn't he outgoing like his brother? I'm tired of all this drawing nonsense.
It's all he ever does. I told him to stop a long time ago, but I knew he didn't.
I knew he was just keeping them from me."
Ryan couldn't find any portraits of his mother left. That hurt him the most.
He found it hard to remember her, he constantly looked at what sketches he did
have of her. She had passed away when he was only 11. He felt her fading from
his memory. He had drawn and redrawn her; her face, her profile, the curves of
her hand, anything to help him hold on to her.
His father had never been the same. He had always been a rough man, but Lana
had had the ability to soften his edges. She had a warmth about her, always
lending a reassuring ear or a kind smile. After she passed, it seemed as if his
father never smiled again. He focused on his work and was tough on the boys.
He wanted Ryan to become a doctor or a businessman, do something respectable
with his life. None of this drawing nonsense. Lana had always loved Ryan's
drawings and continuously encouraged him to keep it up. Ryan's father never
minded his sketches before, but they reminded him too much of Lana. After her
death, every remnant of her presence in the house had been tossed or burned.
Ryan's father couldn't bear to look at any of it. He was furious at her, angry
that she had left him so suddenly. He didn't want to be reminded of her; it was
the only way he could get through the day.
Ryan sunk his feet into the cool water. He wondered if he could ever draw
again. Everything he had ever done had been destroyed and it seemed impossible
to pick it up again. He had bought a new pen and pad of paper at the drugstore,
but they felt foreign in his hands. He hadn't touched a sketchpad in about a
month; the memory of his shredded drawings had stung to freshly in his mind.
But his life wasn't the same without his art, and so, somewhat reluctantly,
he had decided to try again. He had come out to the river, because it had always
been a comforting spot to him. Every summer weekend he, his brother, and parents
would come out this spot on the river for a relief from the scorching sun.
Usually his father and brother would throw the football around in the current.
When Ryan was very young his mother would stay with him, cradling him in her
arms as she gently dipped him into the river. When he grew a bit older he would
often sit on the side with her, he sketching and she reading.
Ryan felt almost as if he was back in the one of those summer weekends. He
was sure he could feel his mother's presence; her lovely scent seemed to fill
his nostrils. He knew she would have wanted him to continue drawing. He slowly
picked up his pen, and he began to outline her portrait, sitting on the
riverbank with her soft hair blowing in the wind.
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