"Jessie, don't you think that you have to push this art-- thing-- a little further if you don't want to be a barista forever?" mom asked me.
It was a fair question, even if the bustle of the family Christmas party marked the timing as pretty terrible. I swirled a glass of pinot noir in my hand as I took stock of my dinky little life. I was 22 years old, painting for fun, and I found joy in those strokes, I did but I had no prospects. I hadn't gone to college, I wanted time to just paint. I didn't see college offering me much to that front, just debt. I just needed more practice. Being a barista equaled money, which equaled art supplies and rent.
But, I guess life has a way of replacing our dreams with worries and mundanity. I spent more time thinking about coffee and wine than I did canvases and oils.
That spark for art had dulled to a low ember, and the night grew cold. something about it just... didn't click so much anymore. My subjects varied, in a restless kind of way, meaning I did not know intimacy with any subject.
I tried the abstract, sanguine blacks and reds expressing something visceral. little hints of pink dotted the canvas, and I wondered what that had meant. It just felt right. But I never felt called to paint another abstract piece again, as of yet.
I liked hands a lot. Those were always fun and complex to make. references were easy to come by, and the gestures were fascinating. hands were easily the most expressive part of the human body after the face, but sometimes so much more subtle.
I returned from a daydream to find my parents offering their support to finally sending me to college.
"We talked about it, and with the breadth of your portfolio, we think you'd be a shoe-in." my mom said. "We can lend you some money so you don't have to go so much into debt, but not a lot. it's-- well, you know it's hard right now."
I nodded dreamily, worrying my lower lip between thumb and forefinger.
"I-" I started. I sighed. I hemmed. I hawed. "what, what does Aunt Tamara think?"
A tired smile grew across my face as I thought of my mom's sister. My parents were supportive, but she had really been there for me when they were working too hard to make ends meet. not that she didn't work hard herself, Aunt Tamara babysat me and did no small part of raising me, while working as a writer herself. She was my mom's younger sibling, after her middle brother.
Both of the elders of my mom's family had gone more 'realistic' routes, but Aunt Tamara remained committed to the written word. I'm sure she'd published a thing or two by now, at least. She'd been in college, studying creative writing, I think I remembered that much. I never remembered much. Except our time together.
"Why don't you go ask her?" my mom asked, giving me a nudge with her elbow. I looked across the living room, dotted with Christmas villages, stockings, and a tree that took up entirely too much room, to see my aunt about to be fed up chatting with her brother, my uncle, judging by the way she clawed her wine glass.
"A-ask her?" I wrung my hands like raw nerves. She was an accomplished writer! surely it would be a little passe to ask her for advice on art and 'what to do with my life'?
"Just ask her about college. maybe you don't remember through the paint fumes, but she babysat you while she was in college, you know."
"I know. I know. Fine. I'll ask her."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and approached her. She looked every part the mature writer. a black turtleneck hugged her body closely. a simple black and gold belt adorned dark blue denim, and her hair flowed, midnight blacks and blues, down her back. She stood back on one leg, hip cocked to the side. She pushed her rounded glasses up to her nose and threw her head back in mock laughter and, as she recovered, turned in my direction.
"Ah! Jessie darling, come here!" she called with a smile, "my brother was just leaving me alone!"
He gave her a playful shove, and the wine in her glass curled but did not spill. Maybe I will get a glass of wine? Hers was almost empty, too, I noticed. my cheeks burned just a touch. I never seemed to quite outgrow wanting to impress her.
"Auntie Tamara, would you like another glass?" I asked, rubbing my neck, "I was just about to get one myself."
"Marvelous idea, Jessie," she said, her hand grazing my shoulder as she went ahead of me. My gaze followed her touch down the length of my arm, and my heart thumped in my chest and my throat went dry. I didn't really understand why. Maybe that's just how it is with those ahead of you on the path you want to follow. Just nerves and envy.
She waited for me at the table.
"You've been serving some wine lately, haven't you?" she asked, and, gesturing to the three bottles of wine on the table, said, "which of this fine selection might you recommend? I'd love to hear about the one you choose."
My wine brain achieved a very still kind of focus. It was between a red, a rose, and a white. I pretty handily selected the red, given the food on offer and the wintery time of year.
"Good call," she hummed. I handed her a glass, wondering if she could note the hopefully imperceptible tremble in my arm. "What can you tell me about it?"
"Well," I said, sniffing. "You'll notice some citrus intermingled with the grapes in the after taste. The front tastes a bit more nutty, but I think there's an interesting transition there, which I honestly don't know how to describe."
She took a sip and looked at the label a little more closely. After a moment's thought, she laughed.
"Oh Jessie! Do you recognize this bottle?" she asked, leaning in, looking up, recalling a memory, "this is the wine you'd hand me when I would babysit you. You were so cute, the way you wanted to pour it for me."
A memory came into focus. she'd ask for a glass of wine, and then watch as I put down my brushes and tripped over myself to provide it for her. She watched because she knew there was always a chance I'd try and drink some. I never did, until a single night where she knew she wouldn't be able to keep babysitting me, as she graduated college and transitioned through life.
That night, she let me try a sip, patting my head as I made disgusted choking noises. It helped cover the tears. I was going to miss seeing her as often as I did. I looked up to her, extravagant and witty and... and I never felt that she looked down at me in return. She always treated me like a person.
"You asked, 'what did you do to these grapes?!'" Aunt Tamara laughed. "and you learned a little about fermentation, and here we are now!"
She leaned in and her voice dropped to a whisper, "I didn't tell your mom about that," she giggled, "that's our little secret."
Something about that warmed me to her, and I felt my shoulders releasing tensions I didn't know they were holding. there was still something that went unspoken, something that happened after I turned eighteen.
I knew she was a writer, but I never knew what it was she wrote when I was younger. When I asked her, she would say adult romance, but mostly that maybe she'd tell me when I'm older. That barely described the truth, as she had written next to me. I became pretty good at internet sleuthing, and found old AO3 accounts and pseudonyms.
"I need to get some fresh air," I said, sitting atop the pressure of a memory barely contained.
"May I join you? I wanted to ask you about something."
I froze for a second, then nodded and smiled, and she followed me onto the little porch at the front of the house.
We sat there for a moment, under the sharp, bright moon, as a winter wind passed through our hair. I neglected to bundle, not expecting to be out there for long.
"I suppose my mom talked to you about college?" I asked.
"That she did, Jessie," she said. "What do you think about that?"
"I- I don't know. It's a lot of money and I am not sure it's worth it. I just want to be left alone to paint. But between working and taking care of my apartment, and trying to have a life, I don't really have time to paint."
She smiled.
