Four o' Clock Homework

Light ricochets off of his glasses. Head lowered, in shame or anger, I can’t tell which. She’s smothering him in her gaze, gray as her hair and her hands. Their standoff continues. Time has bought her colors from her, given her silver in exchange. Silver and all the coldness that comes with it. Gray against gold, she begins to guide his hand. The pencil scratching the paper whispers amongst the clamor of her frustration. The clock ticks in the background.

Her hands were once that same shade of gold, back when things were harder and she seemed smaller against the backdrop. Painted stone standing in the path of the devil's army. Back when fatigue had been a luxury she could not afford. Tick, tock. Light ricochets off the silver; she has set the world on fire. Heat against my face, I turn away from the window and her flames. Tick tock.

She was once a canvas, full of poetry. I’ll have you know, those soldiers’ eyes were black, dark enough to eclipse the afternoon sun. But we children didn’t notice. No, we had her colors. They survived that darkness somehow. They were enough. I remember the red. A benevolent red, etched into her hands. Kept them working for the sake of everyone but herself. Tick tock.

They weren’t broken colors, weren’t cracked or chipped or anything. A smooth coat of paint, looked like life had never taken a whip to it. Looking at those colors, you’d never know. Tick tock. I remember the blue of her voice. It was a silent blue. The pretty kind that the sky turns into when people should be getting ready for bed. I remember her silence, when she would stay up watching that blue turn to black. Tick tock.

Her frustration with him grows louder now. I can hear it. I turn back towards her to see it. My stomach churns, in anger or sadness, I can’t tell which. The clock begins to chime. It counts. One. The colors are far from chipped now; they’re gone. Their ghosts haunt the silver of her frustration becomes deafening and the silver falters, dulls beneath the pounding light, ceases to gleam. It becomes gray as the dust of yesterday, pale from abandonment and abuse. Two. For a moment I think its so sad. A shame, I tell myself. That she sold those colors for this old, metallic soul, full of age and weakness, that can‘t even stand up to some afternoon light. Three. She shakes her head, at him or some memory, I can’t tell which. With the movement, the gray dances around her eyes and temple. She rises and turns to the window, faces that pounding light. It vanishes where she stands, streams around her figure, shoulders bowing from the weight of the worlds she holds there. The silver glints again. Four. The clock ticks and the boy whines. It occurs to me how little I understand.