Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

“Harm?”

“Yeah?”

“Come and help me with this box of paints before I put my back out,” Mom calls.

I chuckle and walk into the back room, bending down and helping her lift the heavy box. “Jeez, you really filled it to the top, didn’t you?” I state.

She shrugs, throwing the box off balance. We struggle to steady it but gain control before we lose our grip again. It happens in slow motion, Mom tries to steady her side but it slips from her grasp, her eyes widening as it crashes to the floor; paint splattering all up the newly painted white wall.

She snorts, covering her nose and mouth with her hands, stifling a laugh. “Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” She gives up her fight and bursts out into a fit of giggles.

I stare at the mess on the floor and back up at the wall, smiling at the look on Mom’s face. “I kinda like it.”

She recovers from her giggle fit and gazes over at the wall with a smile on her face. “I do too.”

The myriad of colors has created a splat that reaches halfway up the wall, almost like it was always meant to be there. “Let’s clean the floor up, but keep that on there. It’s the very first piece of art.”

She wraps her arm around my shoulders and gives me a quick squeeze before grabbing a mop and bucket. Checking which cans and bottles are damaged, I decant the paint from the damaged ones into containers—no point in wasting good paint. Then I clean up the ones that are still intact and place them on the shelves they were originally supposed to be carried over to before standing back and admiring my handiwork again.

Satisfied that that is all done, I turn and gaze over the rest of the studio with a giant smile on my face, filled with pride that this is all mine. It’s beautiful and everything that I ever envisioned.

I run my hand over the wood textured surface of the high tables and look up at the copper lights hanging from the old, wooden beams. It’s taken us almost a full month to get the studio how I wanted it, but it’s been worth every grueling hour of work that we’ve put in.

Mom walks into the room with a bottle of champagne and two glasses in her hands, handing me the bottle when she reaches me. “I think we’ve covered everything on the list. Would you like to do the honors?”

I nod and pop the cork, cheering with her as my stomach somersaults with nerves. It’s opening day tomorrow and I can hardly wait, but I’m also scared.

What if I can’t resonate with these kids like I did my last ones? What if I’m a massive failure? I’d like to try and tell myself that that isn’t so—I am after all an optimist, I always have been—but I need this to work, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.

“I’m proud of you, Harmon

y, we both are,” Mom says, tapping her hand over her heart.

My eyes fill with tears at the motion; it’s where she says Dad lives on now.

“I never could have done it without you.”

“Of course you could’ve, you can do anything you put your mind to.” She gives me a soft smile. “But things are better shared with loved ones,” she states matter-of-factly and glugs down the last of her champagne.

Labrinth—Let The Sun Shine

Katrina and The Waves—Walking On Sunshine

I jog down the stairs in my sweatpants, my bare feet slapping against the steps, making me shiver from the cold of the marble. I head into the kitchen, opening the cabinet doors and pulling out all of the ingredients for pancakes. My hand stills as I grab the flour as I realize that I can’t remember the last time I made them.

Placing the bowl onto the counter, I turn the radio on and mix the ingredients together, singing along to the country song that plays throughout the speakers that line the room. It feels like forever ago since I last listened to music, something so simple yet I haven’t done it in so long.

Once I’ve made the perfect batter, I put the griddle on to warm and start making place settings at the kitchen counter just in time to hear little footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Daddy?” Izzie calls, a doll hanging from her hand as she rubs at her eyes.

“Hey, sweetie pie!” A giant grin takes over my face as I crouch down and pick her up, pulling her against my chest and kissing her on the head.

She giggles and pulls back as I start to tickle her, the sound of her laughter making my grin widen even more.

“Is Clay up?” I ask when I place her on the bar stool, pouring her a glass of orange juice.

“Yeah, he said he’s coming down after he’s put his books back in order.”