Crayons to Crayons

Spring 2011
Mixed Media: Crayola crayon, colored pencil, hard Prisma oil pastel
This piece is about the transition from childhood to adulthood in the form of art. Drawing with crayons matures into drawing crayons 

Crayons to Crayons

The woman took a deep breath and peaked around the corner. The sight stunned her, just as it did every time she passed by that room. Her eyes filled with tears, and she knew it was her fault.

Growing up the boy had not questioned his mother or their way of life. He knew that she was working hard, and being a single mother had never been easy for her. He ignored what the kids at school said about his clothes and their house. He knew that telling his mother would only hurt her more.

Two more steps into the room, and another choked breath. She ran her hand across his bed, and hugged the pillow infused with dust mites. Everything lay preserved under a fine layer of dust; untouched for the past three years. She began to thumb through his drawers, taking out old clothing and toy spaceships. She felt something cool against her skin, and removed a metal box from underneath a stack of clothes from his elementary years. She opened it carefully and had to close her eyes as the tears streamed down her face.  

The little boy was constantly praised by his teachers. He had a true talent for art that no other student in his class could compare with. He drew and drew. Every paper his hands touched was covered with elaborate doodles. Every project was beaming with color and creativity. But as the boy began high school, his mother was still struggling, to provide for them. So, he decided to get a job. As his free time dwindled, his art was put aside, a forgotten past time of his childhood. Senior year came along, and he knew his future. He really had no other choice; his family could never afford a college tuition. He didn’t talk about his decision with his mother. One day he just told her his decision. She didn’t reply. She wanted more than anything for him to go to college. But she would pay a price for that dream. She knew she didn’t have a better option for him, and so she let him go. While on the plane, he thought about what college he might have gone to. What would he have become if he had not signed up for this harsh life style he was headed for? And he knew he would have become an artist.

She removed the pages one by one holding them at arms length as to not spatter them with her tears.  There were pictures from his toddler years drawn with crayon. There were projects that sported elaborate paper snowflakes and marker and glitter glue. These were from his days in elementary school. Atop that there were drawings and doodles done with pencils, shaded by an expert. They must have been from middle school. Many of them were on the back of tests and in the margins of notes. At the very top of the pile, pressed down by the lid of the tin box, was a drawing of crayons. She didn’t know when he had drawn this, maybe during an art class in middle school, maybe in high school before he got the job with the lawn company. If only her monthly paycheck could have supported them both. If only he didn’t have to leave her for a foreign country. He would still be drawing. She kissed the picture of the crayons and placed it back in the box.

Three years ago a boy died. He was 18. He had joined the military knowing it was his only option. His mother walked into his room today. It was the first time since her son’s death.