I lay awake, curled up under my sheets in our shoebox of an apartment in Brooklyn. The city is loud as always. From my window, I can see a sliver of sun blanketed bright with police lights — a perfect portrait of a lonely city. As I gaze out, I can hear the vivid brushstrokes as they run down the canvas. I can almost see the ruby red and electric blue dripping down and unraveling into each other. I can hear the paint drip, drip, drip onto the hardwood floors, and I know my mom is ready with a damp cloth to wipe away the color.
My mom, Lily, is an artist. “An explorer of imagination,“ is how she likes to say it. She is a painter by night and a waitress by day. She sleeps on her lunch break and runs on a diet of black coffee and cherry pie. Her childhood and my dad are mysteries to me. I can only assume they were anything but average, just like she is. Sometimes I create fantasies about them: my incredibly wealthy grandma and grandpa lavishing me with gifts, my father a distinguished prince from the island of Kauai. I know these are just products of my wild imagination, but I long to understand my history. At times my mother is a complete puzzle to me, while at other times she is an open book. Here at home, on hot and sticky Brooklyn summer nights, she descends so far into her imagination that she becomes one with her art.
I am awakened by the smell of freshly brewed coffee and burned toast. My eyes drift up toward my yellow ceiling and then back to my battered blanket. As I get out of bed, I peer into a mirror that my mom picked up at a flea market a few years ago. My hair is dark and ratty but has the ambition to be straight, and my summer freckles are scattered along my cheeks. I pull back my hair in an unflattering ponytail and head to the kitchen. My mom is multitasking, as usual: drinking out of her supersized mug, doing the dishes, and on the phone trying to talk her way out of a parking ticket. I envy her ability to multitask, as those genes, along with her art skills, never made it to me. I take the now-ashen toast out of the toaster and lather orange marmalade on it. I slowly eat my breakfast and watch my mom argue until she gets off the phone with a smile. She dips a piece of the burned toast into her coffee with a triumphant look on her face. I try to smile back but instead watch in silent disgust as she inhales the coffee-soaked toast.
As soon as we conquer our morning activities, Mom disappears into her art. She is not to be disturbed, and I will not see her again until tomorrow morning, when she gets back from waitressing the night shift. The thought of the Brooklyn heat and so many lonely hours creates an unsettled feeling in me. Unlike most kids, I hate summers. We could never afford summer camp, and I have always been too shy to make friends with the neighborhood kids. When I was younger and could not be trusted to go out alone, I would always get lost. I used to pace back and forth around the apartment with an American classic in my hand. Nowadays, I can venture out and explore the wild nooks and crannies of New York. I am not afraid to admit that I am a loner, and the city has always felt like a close friend. Sometimes I visit people I have met on my adventures, like a barista named Cherry, who gives me extra whipped cream on my hot chocolate, and Tom, the owner of the most outrageous bookstore in Manhattan.
I discovered the bookstore while perusing my mom's small collection of books. When I opened the first book, I noticed a card taped to the inside of the cover that read “Tom’s Books,” with an address and phone number. I found the same card in most of her books, and took this as a welcome sign to go on an adventure to find the bookstore.
Although small, the bookstore is stuffed with so many books that I feel my heart race with excitement each time I walk in. Mom does not know that I take the subway to another borough on my “adventures.” I stretch the truth a bit, and she always seems satisfied with my fictional stories of the day.
It has been a few days since I was last at the bookstore, but I am determined to go even though it’s incredibly hot. The scorching walk to the station seems to go on forever, and by the time I get there, I am pink and sweaty. I am used to the subway’s sights and smells in the summer: humid feet and ripe underarms. I disappear into a book and hold my nose the entire way, ignoring the other riders around me. As soon as I am out of the subway, I am greeted by the bustle of Manhattan. I happily tighten my hold on my tattered backpack as I confidently walk toward the bookstore, finally released to my second world.
My mom, Lily, is an artist. “An explorer of imagination,“ is how she likes to say it. She is a painter by night and a waitress by day. She sleeps on her lunch break and runs on a diet of black coffee and cherry pie. Her childhood and my dad are mysteries to me. I can only assume they were anything but average, just like she is. Sometimes I create fantasies about them: my incredibly wealthy grandma and grandpa lavishing me with gifts, my father a distinguished prince from the island of Kauai. I know these are just products of my wild imagination, but I long to understand my history. At times my mother is a complete puzzle to me, while at other times she is an open book. Here at home, on hot and sticky Brooklyn summer nights, she descends so far into her imagination that she becomes one with her art.
I am awakened by the smell of freshly brewed coffee and burned toast. My eyes drift up toward my yellow ceiling and then back to my battered blanket. As I get out of bed, I peer into a mirror that my mom picked up at a flea market a few years ago. My hair is dark and ratty but has the ambition to be straight, and my summer freckles are scattered along my cheeks. I pull back my hair in an unflattering ponytail and head to the kitchen. My mom is multitasking, as usual: drinking out of her supersized mug, doing the dishes, and on the phone trying to talk her way out of a parking ticket. I envy her ability to multitask, as those genes, along with her art skills, never made it to me. I take the now-ashen toast out of the toaster and lather orange marmalade on it. I slowly eat my breakfast and watch my mom argue until she gets off the phone with a smile. She dips a piece of the burned toast into her coffee with a triumphant look on her face. I try to smile back but instead watch in silent disgust as she inhales the coffee-soaked toast.
As soon as we conquer our morning activities, Mom disappears into her art. She is not to be disturbed, and I will not see her again until tomorrow morning, when she gets back from waitressing the night shift. The thought of the Brooklyn heat and so many lonely hours creates an unsettled feeling in me. Unlike most kids, I hate summers. We could never afford summer camp, and I have always been too shy to make friends with the neighborhood kids. When I was younger and could not be trusted to go out alone, I would always get lost. I used to pace back and forth around the apartment with an American classic in my hand. Nowadays, I can venture out and explore the wild nooks and crannies of New York. I am not afraid to admit that I am a loner, and the city has always felt like a close friend. Sometimes I visit people I have met on my adventures, like a barista named Cherry, who gives me extra whipped cream on my hot chocolate, and Tom, the owner of the most outrageous bookstore in Manhattan.
I discovered the bookstore while perusing my mom's small collection of books. When I opened the first book, I noticed a card taped to the inside of the cover that read “Tom’s Books,” with an address and phone number. I found the same card in most of her books, and took this as a welcome sign to go on an adventure to find the bookstore.
Although small, the bookstore is stuffed with so many books that I feel my heart race with excitement each time I walk in. Mom does not know that I take the subway to another borough on my “adventures.” I stretch the truth a bit, and she always seems satisfied with my fictional stories of the day.
It has been a few days since I was last at the bookstore, but I am determined to go even though it’s incredibly hot. The scorching walk to the station seems to go on forever, and by the time I get there, I am pink and sweaty. I am used to the subway’s sights and smells in the summer: humid feet and ripe underarms. I disappear into a book and hold my nose the entire way, ignoring the other riders around me. As soon as I am out of the subway, I am greeted by the bustle of Manhattan. I happily tighten my hold on my tattered backpack as I confidently walk toward the bookstore, finally released to my second world.
To read Part Two, please click here.