My thoughts form boldly. They’re rapid, often manifesting into knots of cut-off sentences and peculiar designs. But today I find that the mess of ideas is absent.
My mind is now as active as my body is not. I am losing all my attention to the skyline, cut almost like the edge of a key. My eyes beg to close, but I abrasively deny their request. I need to take in every detail, every point in which the corners of the buildings puncture the sky. I’m exhausted and hungry, having only eaten the granola bar crumbs from my pencil drawer - but that doesn’t matter right now. I can’t let this escape me. I need to retain every feature.
The train jerks forward as it comes to a stop and I find myself spilling over into the seat in front of me. I reach out and push myself back up, straightening my back against the hard blue seat. Before I collect my bags, I take in one more glimpse of the scene, fractured through the train station windows and step off onto the terminal.
As my foot touches the ground, I am re-immersed into my reality. Sounds of  scattering feet and indistinct conversations crowd the air and I struggle to maneuver through the people packed like high school students going to their next class. As I rush through, I hear a baby start to cry and pick up the pace.
I walk the three blocks to my home and swing open the door. The light peeking through the curtains gives me just enough scope to make out the wall switch near the kitchen sink and I flip it. All the colors in my home resurface. As I set my bags along the table, I do all I can to not look into the room. I can see in my peripheral that the door was left open and I immediately attribute the absentmindedness to Eric, my husband - but I relent quickly, considering he was in the room at all.
“It’s okay,” I say, not completely convincing myself. I walk over and place a hand on the doorknob, but before I can close the door, I stare. The picture frame with a calligraphic “Family” across the edge in royal blue stares back at me from the dusty shelf. The strangers in the placeholder photo mock me, perpetually smiling as they’re perfect child grips their thumbs. I slam the door closed and lean my forehead against the cool wood.
Taking in a deep breath, I step back and return to the table. My paint brushes and bottles of acrylic paint lay scattered like bowling pins, neglected on the other end of it. My mind raffles through collective memories and I latch on to one in particular. Eric was gripping the first finished canvas.
“He’s going to love it!” It was an acrylic and oil piece of the Coney Island sunset.
“Newborns don’t appreciate anything but sleep and milk,” I told him. He laughed and placed the canvas next to the crib.
“Well, fine - I love it! Your work is...it’s extraordinary. And you know what? I’ll place a bet right now,” he said grabbing my hands and pulling me into him. “I’ll bet you five diaper changes, that he’s going to love it just as much as I do.”
“Aw, babe...that’s sweet. But by the time we know whether or not he’s ‘learned to love it’, he’ll be well out of diapers. Nice try.”
Eric laughed again, his chortle echoing through the room. He picked up the canvas from the floor and hung it on the hook just above the wall against the crib.
I feel the warmth of my tears fall against my hand gripping the edge of the table and I wonder how long it usually takes other families to accept. I roll my eyes up to the ceiling and wipe them on the sleeve of my shirt. I reach into one of the bags and pull out the drug store pregnancy test. Eric won’t be home for another three hours, so I need to get this done now.
I set myself up in the bathroom and follow the procedure printed on the box. I walk out when I’m done and sit on the couch opposite the table. I can feel the bottles of paint gazing at me. They’re scrutinizing me for abandoning them, for not fulfilling their purpose. The image of the skyline from earlier today comes back into my thoughts, as well as every other portrait I’ve saved in the back of my mind for safekeeping. They plead to come to life. I realize that I have forgotten what the paint brush feels like in my grasp. How it feels to slick paint against a blank slate.  I can’t lose myself, too. I won’t.
I clear the table, easel my board, and squeeze colors out from their tubes. They reach for one another, seeping into wider puddles when they touch the pan. I can see the skyline on the canvas like it’s already painted, but trapped under the stitching. I pick up the brush and sigh as I introduce the bristles to the paint and begin to color the canvas. The acrylic smears and merges and some blue falls on my chest. I don’t even bother to wipe it off - nothing can divert me from what I’ve started.
Blues merge with reds and they create beautiful purples and this reunion of colors inspires me to continue. The image in my head is coming to life in front of my eyes. It’s invigorating - the best form of escapism I’ve felt in a long time.
And I hear the timer on my phone wail in the acoustics of my bathroom. The noise scares me out of my trance and the fear settles as unwarranted apprehension. My feet shuffle over to the bathroom and I switch on the lights as I close my eyes.
“Maybe this time,” I whisper out loud. “Maybe, maybe this one...I can. It’s okay. It will be okay.” I believe myself a little more.
I open my eyes and stare at the result, my eyes swelling with tears once more.