Tomorrow

By Georgia Olson

It needs some red. In the corner, maybe, like the sun is setting just out of sight.  I’m writing it instead of painting, though, because I’m not sure. Blue might be better.  

Tomorrow I’ll add the cemetery. I can see it from the window, just beneath the  lighthouse. They say it’s so you can always find your way home again, if you want to. I hope you want to.  

I went to the market today, for the first time since the funeral. They asked about  you, and I responded with exactly the poise a grieving woman should have at this point  in the healing process: enough to comfort them that I’m not going to lose my mind, but not too much that I seem callous. I went to all the same vendors and bought mostly the same things, just fewer of them. I’m sorry—I didn’t get your favorite lemon pastries. I never liked lemon and I didn’t want to waste them. I can probably fit the market somewhere on the painting. Or maybe just some sour yellows. A joke, just between the two of us.  

Okay I lied, I didn’t add the cemetery. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe I  can paint every grave except yours. Or would that be worse?  

The curator is asking for a painting. Something about getting local artists back  in the museum. She paid half my normal commission up front, but I might give it back to her. I’d feel terrible taking her money for a piece that’s not coming.  

Okay, I also lied about the market. I haven’t gone yet. I wondered if writing it down would make me want to go, but it didn’t. I won’t be able to respond as I should when they ask about you. And they will ask. Even the ones who weren’t at the funeral will know as soon as they see me alone, or when I omit the lemon pastries. And the longer I don’t go, the heavier the question becomes. I should go. I miss them.

Tomorrow, maybe. I’ll try. 

I lied about the museum, too. And it was mean of me to call her “the curator.” She’s my friend. You know her. She stopped by when I didn’t respond to her calls. She thought I should paint something. I guess I agree, even though I threw her out of the house for asking. I should apologize.  

And I guess I lied about the painting, as well. I’ve barely started it. I mostly just  sit next to your bed and look out the window, toward the lighthouse with the cemetery just below it, which is exactly what I was doing when you left me.  

No, it needs red. In the corner where the sun is setting. I’ll start tomorrow—no, that doesn’t work. I’ll start tonight.

Georgia Olson is a Music and Creative Writing double major from Seattle, currently in her junior year. In her work she is curious about how people interact with each other, with the world around them, and with themselves. Outside of writing she enjoys knitting/crocheting, playing video games, and learning about niche topics.