Christmas Earrings

It's why I am here now. It's making something of it.

For a very long time now, I have been going to bed early. Sleep would not come for hours, but I was tucked away. I am wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, the stars float by, the world turns and I do not have to see it. I do not have to see the alarm clock, set for the early morning, so I won’t be late in the office, that stale place.  

I do not have to see the Christmas Earrings.  

My aunt was an artist. She was full of laughter and mischief. She was a childish person, her sense of humor was unpolished and rough. Her grave now overlooks the Danube, in the middle of the rocky hills of Upper Austria. The marble has a blood red imprint of her name in it, facing west. Every evening the shadows creep up the walls, but they do not touch her name. The sun is gone before they do. Only the marble is devoured by the shadows, her name survives.  

Her life was spent travelling, for months she would vanish, to Kazakhstan, India, the Americas.  

She wore a bright red coat, with a thick black fur collar. It shone out like a beacon through the winter night, when she walked up the pathway to her father’s house to celebrate with us. A celebration she enhanced.  

I have only known her as an adult, in her 40s and 50s but her eyes sparkled like a child’s all the same, the next joke, the next prank the next adventure already formed in her head.  

Every Christmas, she wore special Christmas Earrings. I remember them well, though the memory of her face is beginning to fade now. I glance at them every day as they gather dust, displayed prominently on my make-up table. A reminder. Of what, I do not know.  

Of her, perhaps. Of her child-like eyes.  

I dare not wear them, something holds me back. They are a token of her individuality, her love for funny little things, the peculiar parts of her personality that only few knew about.  

She was an artist. Her art never went far, only a handful of galleries ever showed her art. She had a network of seemingly thousands of friends, strangers from far-away places and lost souls, close to home. She was an artist. Her talent and precision with a brush may be debated, but she was an artist, inside and out. She made something of it.  

During her travels, she saw people for what they were and painted their hearts. She always saw more good in them than there actually was and took a piece of it with her. She made something of it.  

Her art expressed all the red and black and yellow and green of her character. It was hers in so many ways. It never went far, but her paintings and colours portray her to the world that nothing else could. Her art was her own.  

Cancer took her, in the end.  

For a very long time now, I have been going to bed early, to be able to ignore the world and the call of the Christmas Earrings.  

And for a very long time, I have been wanting to be a writer.  

There is so much beauty in words, when they are allowed to flow freely, like a river towards a great ocean; waves crashing upon the shores of the mind, teasing it, striking it, but soothing it all the same. There is such magic in a story, it takes you away, smothers you with it's power and liberates your very soul.  

I am in awe when I read, in awe of the stories others can tell, how they touch me so deeply and change me so permanently. I am in awe of the words they can chose, how they display my heart and rip it out, to tear it up in front of my waking eyes.  

I wrap myself in my cocoon of blankets, as I am inspired and my heart grows bigger and bigger until it explodes. Into hurt, into pain, as the realization sets in. That I cannot do the same, no matter how hard I try.  

I cannot travel the world, I do not have a red coat that shines out through a stormy night. I cannot fight the shadows on the marble, they creep up and devour me, while I close my eyes, so I do not have to see it.  

But suddenly, the decision is made. I am to be a writer, none the less.  

I have accepted this, now, as something that will never go away. I have accepted this urge as a part of me I can no longer push aside, wrapped in my cocoon of blankets, avoiding the stars and the world. And the Christmas Earrings. They are a reminder, I know now.  

To make something of it.  

I may never go far, but I am a writer, inside and out. I will not go to bed early but stay up late. I will watch the stars float in front of my mind's eye and run through the fields of my imagination. I will paint the world in red and black and yellow and green. And make something of it.  

Perhaps my aunt did the same. Perhaps that is how she kept the child-like sparkle in her eye. So, I will make something. Even if it's not significant. It will be mine.  

Like those Christmas Earrings. And the red and black and yellow and green pictures of a character. 

Author's Note

I will be submitting this piece (when I feel it is ready). Now, it is far from ready. It is raw and unpolished which is why reviews, critiques - harsh as you like! - are extremely welcome, I crave them in fact.