Memories of Amy

This is an entry sent in for our monthly Competition!

“Memories of Amy“
By Marianne Bartley

It was time for the concert and the crowd began to flow toward the auditorium.  My eyes were blurry from the recent onslaught of children wanting to be painted and the movement of bodies up the promenade looked ever so much like autumn leaves rolling past me, guided by the brisk autumn breeze.  A young mother carrying her daughter emerged from the blur of color and stood at my booth, looking from one of the hanging photos to another.  The child, already half the size of her petite mom, squirmed in her arms but she seemed not to notice as she shifted her from one arm to another, never losing her gaze on the face designs dangling before her.  Her eyes met mine and she said, rather apologetically,

“I don’t think she will let you.  She doesn’t hold still for anyone.”

The little girl slid from her mom’s arms to the ground and stood, holding her hand, and looking at me suspiciously.

“How old is she?” I asked.  “She just turned five last week.”

“Has she ever had her face painted?” I asked?

“No, I know she would love it but she won’t let anyone touch her but me.”

She took a deep sigh and I could see the tired look in her eyes that I had seen in my own so many times.  It is not a good tired. It is one of frustration and helplessness and utter exhaustion.

“Can I try something?” At that moment, I felt that there was something more important than a simple face painting here.  This mom was hoping for help with far more than her daughter holding still.  She wanted what every mom wants for her daughter.  She wanted her to come out from behind her legs where she was hiding and peeking at me, and to be able to face new things without the fear that radiated from her now.  Her mom was seeking that first step toward making her daughter open to new experiences.

“Sure, whatever you think might work,…but I don’t think she will cooperate.”  She was so apologetic and yet hopeful.  It touched my heart.

“Would you mind giving me a hug?” She seemed surprised but smiled and nodded.  I hugged her, a warm and genuine hug.  When she stepped back, there were tears in her eyes.

“I think I needed that,” she said, her voice raspy.  “I haven’t been hugged in a long time by anyone but Amy.  She reached down and brushed the hair from the little girl’s eyes.  They were searching my face intently.

“Can I paint your hand?” I asked the mom.

“Where do you want me to sit?”  She smiled.

While I painted, slowly and deliberately, we talked.  I learned that her husband was in Iraq and that her mother, who had been caring for little Amy, had passed away from ovarian cancer just three months ago.  It was like putting together a picture puzzle and the last few pieces showed the wolf looking through the window.  Life was a scary thing right now for them both.

The little girl watched intently as the leaves and vines and flowers unfolded beneath the brush.  Her hand rested on her mother’s leg, just beneath the hand I was painting.  I lowered the brush and made a quick, bright blue line on the girl’s hand. Startled, she pulled her hand back and stared at the line intently.  I continued working on the flowers on her mother’s hand.  A moment passed and the little hand slipped beneath us and rested back on her mom’s knee.  I looked over to see her eyes searching my face questioningly.
I began making each mark on one hand and then the other, mimicking each line on the little girl’s hand.  When I finished the flower on her mom’s hand, I turned to the child, took her hand and rested it on my own knee.  The child watched every stroke, every new color with fascination.  The very last touch, I added a bright rainbow and a star in the sky at the uppermost arch of the rainbow.

“This is your grandma’s star.”  I told her.  She is watching us right now and this star is because she loves you so much.  Amy walked to the edge of the tent and held her arm out to the sun, fascinated by the light dancing upon the glitter.
“Thank you so much.  I can’t believe she let you do that.  It is so beautiful.”  Her eyes had welled with tears again but this time the pain wasn’t there.  It was something else.

“No, sweetie.  Thank you for letting me be the first to paint her.  There is something really special about a child trusting me and it is a gift for me.  I will smile every time I think of Amy.”  My eyes were blurry again, but not from fatigue this time.
Before they left, Amy gave me a hug.  It wasn’t one of those polite hugs, prompted by a parent.  It was the spontaneous, warm hugs of a child that wants to give a gift and all they have to offer is themselves.

That is why I paint…

Marianne Bartley
Giggle and Grin!
www.giggleandgrin.com

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Thank you for sending this in Marianne, so touching. Thank you for sharing this beautiful story. You’re not just a face painter you’re also a talented writer!

Happy Face Painting,

Philadelphia Tivoli

www.FacePaintingTips.com
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