Simple 

By Kallie O’Leary

The painting stretched all the way down the long hall. Swirls of orange, yellow, and red in no strategic way. Lights behind the painting create a calming atmosphere around it. The painting had no title, although I’m sure it’s “Healing” or something stupid like that. The painting was warm in the white hall. The only other color 

was the white beaming off of the lights. People pass this   painting every day, yet I don’t think anyone has ever actually looked at it. I will never forget this painting. My eyes burned as more tears started to flow out of them. Sitting on the cold hospital floor. My eyes glued to the painting. Studying every inch of it, trying to focus on anything other than the flat line noise in the room down the hall. Nurses and doctors rushing past me, and no one even batting an eye at me. Like everything about this is normal. This is not normal. I should not be studying a stupid painting on the hospital floor waiting for my mom to wake up. If she wakes up. 

Wheels rolling and screeching on ceramic floors. Monitors beeping. Doctors talking to patients and delivering bad news. Patients screaming and the thud of their body on the floor as they drop to their knees. Begging God for a different outcome. The painting witnesses this every day. To the painting this is normal. The painting hears things no one else does. The painting knows things no one else does. The swirls of orange, yellow, and red sees things no one else does. The painting knows i didn’t mean to crash the car. It knows there was no way to tell there was black ice on the highway. It knows I didn’t mean to hit the tree. It knows it’s not my fault. But the painting also knows it is my fault. The painting knows I should have been going slower. It knows I should have listened to my mom when she told me to slow down. The painting knows that the tree probably killed her. And the painting knows I will blame myself for the rest of my life. 

The doctors make his way over to me. He lets his body slide down the wall and sits next to me. I look at him trying to read his expression. Trying to find out if I killed my mother or not. When I look at him, he is looking down. I look back at the painting. The painting already knowing the news. Already knowing the outcome. The painting knows I killed my mom. The doctor’s hand appears on my back, trying to give me comfort. I appreciate his effort but nothing will ever comfort me. I should have been the one who died. I was driving the car. I should be dead. Not my precious mom. The stupid swirls of orange, yellow, and red that takes no skill to make. This stupid painting delivered the worst news of my life. This stupid painting I will never forget.