—T
Stella blinked rapidly at the note until the words started to blur. It took a moment to realize there were tears in her eyes. Why was she being so emotional today? It wasn’t just Troy’s sweet note—Phoebe did have good taste in friends—because she’d felt this way all day. Crying over the thought of leaving for college, over her mother’s paintings — Her gaze fell on the paintings and she instantly knew.
How could she have forgotten? She was a truly horrible daughter. Today was the anniversary of her mother’s death. And she hadn’t remembered.
Before she could blink Stella was standing in the little cemetery on the east edge of the island, in front of her mother’s grave. She was only more surprised to find her father already standing there.
***
Without saying a word, Stella stepped over to her father and slipped her arms around his waist. His arms came around her shoulders, wrapping her in a warm, safe place.
“I’m so sorry, Daddy,” she said, ignoring her tears. “I can’t believe I forgot what today was.”
“It’s all right,” he replied, hugging her tight before leaning back.
“Your mother would not want us spending our days, our years mourning her. She was too much of a vibrant, vivacious woman to wish us anchored to the past.”
Stella forced a watery smile. “I know.” An awkward laugh bubbled out. “She would probably want us to forget the date altogether.”
“Doubtless,” he agreed. “But she would appreciate the fact that we will not.”
For several long moments, they stood there—hand-in-hand—gazing at the simple white headstone and lost in their own memories. Stella’s focused on painting the mural. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by pots of paint laid out on a spatter-covered drop cloth. Her mother would paint the basic shape and then let Stella paint in the details.
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? Tera Lynn Childs
The Twelve Days of Stella
11
Even when it looked wretched, she never went back and corrected Stella’s work.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said before she realized what she was going to say. “I’d like to start painting again.”
His hand squeezed hers tighter. “I think that is a marvelous idea.”
She swallowed over the tightness in her throat. “Are her art supplies still—“
“In a box in the basement. Yes, of course.” He gave her one of his knowing smiles. “I always hoped you would resume painting one day. You loved it so much.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
Finally, she felt the melancholy that had plagued her all day begin to lift. It should feel odd that her mood would lighten while she attended her mother’s grave, but it didn’t.
Not when it would make her mother smile.
Stella smiled, too.
***
After searching the basement for twenty minutes, Stella finally found the boxes labeled MAYA. As she brushed off the layer of dust that had accumulated in the last nine years she wondered what treasures her father had packed away. The label on the first box read: MAYA—DRESSER.
Her mom’s clothes and jewelry.
Stella started to drift into memories of playing dress-up in brightly colored dresses and costume jewelry, but pulled herself back into the moment.
She was here with a purpose.
After setting aside the first three boxes, she found the one she wanted. MAYA—ART.
Hefting the box off the floor, Stella autoported upstairs into the dining room. She could hear Troy and Phoebe in the living room. Rather than venture into the kitchen for a knife, she neofactured one and sliced open the box.
She found a wealth of art supplies. Brushes tied up in a canvas pouch. Rags and sponges for texturing. A tackle box full of half-squeezed paint tubes, sketching pencils, gum erasers, and dozens of other tools.
It smelled like her mom.
The only thing not in the box was a blank canvas. Since she was not about to paint over teralynnchilds.com
? Tera Lynn Childs
The Twelve Days of Stella
12
one of her mom’s works, she neofactured one of those, as well.
Though it had been years since she attempted anything more artistic than an intricate hairstyle, as Stella laid the contents of the box across the table it felt like yesterday her mom had first taught her how to mix her own colors. Pulling the tubes of acrylic paint from the bottom of the tackle box, she paused when her hands brushed over a scrap of parchment.
Stella knew what it would say before she read it.
What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?
—Vincent van Gogh
Her mother’s favorite quote.
She placed it next to the blank canvas, where it could inspire her as she sought the courage to attempt her first painting without her mother’s guidance.
***
“Hey Stella, are you—?” Phoebe burst into the dining room.