A Childhood Memory
There´s one memory from my childhood that I remember particularly well. I think it was in my second year at school, I was seven or maybe eight years old. It was a lovely crimson-colored autumn day and my class had been outside in the woods by the school. I remember following a path past a great mound of stones surrounded by slank and wispy silvery-gold Birches. The September woods were sun-dappled and quiet. Our teacher asked us to gather autumn-coloured leaves from the kind of tree we liked the most, or pick the one´s with the most beautiful colours. Back in the classroom we all recieved a colour-palette each, water in a cup and some brushes, and paper of course. We had about an hour to paint the leaves as detailed as we possibly could, us being 8-year-olds with shaky hands unaccustomed to using a paintbrush it wasn´t an easy task though. I remember that we got to choose what type of brush to use, a couple each I believe if my memory doesn´t decieve me. I chose one medium-size and one real fine, perhaps about 3 millimeters thick. I started with painting the branchlets with it´s smooth bark coating in numerous shades of umber, dark brown and burnt sienna. A slender twig in the midst and two thinner one´s slightly tilted aside upwards, striving alongside the middle twig. With swift strokes of the bigger brush I applied the leaves to the paper, blending yellow ochre and scarlet red into different shades of orange and gold. Some of the foliage still wore the colour of deep green, but dry and stale, edged with pale brown and a whiff of decay. I was quite satisfied with the dark spiderweb tracery I managed to create at the ribs of each leaf, reaching from the base to the pointed edge of the tip. Eying the Rowan- branch on the top of my desk closely, I drew the last dark brown trembling linguering lines of the brittle fair stems bearing it´s luminous red offspring. Tremendously focused on my painting I didn´t hear when our teacher called for a playtime break outside. Only when the crowd of kids noisily got up, metal chairlegs scraping against the unpolished linoleum floor, left they´re desks and flowed out of the classroom I slowly woke from my deep state of concentration. Since I had made a great deal of effort with my painting, my teacher and her assistant both agreed to ask whether I wanted to stay inside in order to finish it. Shame if such a beautiful painting wouldn´t be finished, they argued. Therefore, whilst the other children were rummaging the cloakroom to put their outerwear on, opposing the sickly opressive heat of the afternoon sun and the stale drying dust-crammed air dead calm, I continued my painting. Outlined the brightly shining rowanberries one by one, noticed the gaunt twigs carried a suprisingly rich quantity of the brilliant coquelicot-coloured berries, looking as though strung together like beads within the woven pattern of fair fine stems.
Sometimes I wonder why this particular memory is still as vivid and distinct as if it occured only yesterday. It certainly feel like yesterday when I do remember, the joyous emotion of childish happiness is immensely strong. I remember clearly how the sun shone through the windows of the room, I remember which colours the rays of light aquired after scattering reflections on deep red and dark green varnished pine-panelling. I remember the rich smell of sunny warm wood, dirty gritty sandals, pencils fresh from the box or newly sharpened, dusty old books... Feelings, so many happy feelings. I´ve considered whether or not it was the joy in beeing allowed to stay and continue to do something I loved, painting, that made me remember this so clearly. Or whether it might have been the unexpected act of the teachers that made the grand impression for me to remember. They took notice in me, for once they saw the invisible and constantly unnoted girl. The shy and timid one who never asked questions, never asked for help, never asked for anything, she hardly spoke at all in class. As the occurence came to pass the every-day-life at school continued same as before, only with one tiny but oh-so-very-important change. The girl rather silent still, but now knowing she is not altogether invisible, thus making it easier to endure the times when unseen and unnoted. Now she knows she can be seen and due to that she will be seen more frequently, growing more visible and noticeable every time she´s seen. One day she will be visible to all and she will speak freely, her words will flow light-hearted and easy to all who listen and see.
