On Thursday afternoons
after school,
my mom teaches drawing classes
at the Marin County Rec Center.
The best part is that Lisa
and her mom both go.
Lisa’s the youngest student,
but my mom says she has a real gift.
She paints the entire canvas
without any fear. She just lets
the colors explode wherever she wants,
unafraid to get her hands dirty.
Sometimes we all get dinner after class,
and soon our moms become friends,
drink wine and talk
while me and Lisa write stories
and build worlds together.
She loves vintage music,
and I tell her about
the old TV shows and movies
I like to watch.
Once after the drawing class,
Lisa, with her long, wild blond hair,
her hands full of charcoal and paint,
in her torn jeans, her Def Leppard T-shirt,
and her tall white boots,
took my hand and walked me outside.
What’s it like having a mom like yours? she asked.
My mom drinks all the time, Ari.
All. The. Time. Even more after the divorce.
But all I could feel was her hand,
like it had stretched itself
over my whole body.
I didn’t know how to answer
right away. I thought
about telling her what
I imagined she wanted to hear,
about art and studios
and books everywhere,
but being with her
made the truth just come out:
She smokes too much,
yells all the time,
and I never know
what will happen next.
I could see in her eyes
she was looking for something,
squeezing my hand tighter now,
like she might squeeze even more truth
out of me, a key to something.
I didn’t know what to do.
but
this hand
in my hand
would unravel me.