Chariot of Wings

I’m not much of a reader.  I never have been.  But sometimes a story will really stick with me, resonate in a way that somehow sets it apart.  One story like that was a piece of Celtic mythology that I read several years ago.  It was about a faerie called the Leanan Sidhe, who gave artists inspiration in exchange for their souls. 

I’d bet one of the fingers on my left hand that whoever first came up with that story knew a person a lot like Emily Harrison. 

I first met Emily in sixth grade, during one of those mandatory physical education classes that the state requires but everyone else wouldn’t mind doing without.  I guess I noticed her because on the surface she seemed a lot like me – she was shy, fairly quiet, and didn’t socialize with her classmates much. 

That was about all we had in common, though, because it wasn’t long before I figured out that Emily was an artist.  I’m not
talking about doodles on the corners of classwork; I’m talking paintings, sculptures, and drawings so accurate that some of them could be taken for photographs.

She had an incredible imagination, too.  Most of her work was in a style that I can only describe as surreal, with bright colors and patterns that seemed more at home in a children’s coloring book than hung in the sterile white hallways of Westwood Middle School.  One of my favorite works of hers was a painting of a hot-air balloon pulled by a flock of birds, like a chariot racing toward the bright orange sun. 

Emily was by far the best artist in the school, so it wasn’t long before a good dozen examples of her work hung down by the visual arts classroom in the Arts wing of the building.  Every time I passed one, I would stop and just stare for a couple of minutes.  Her pictures spoke to me in a way that nothing else ever had, like the first rays of sunlight that touched a baby plant as it poked its first leaves above the soil. 

The other guys teased me about my so-called obsession all the time.  I put up with it at first and did my best to take the playful ribbings in stride, but after a while they started to get to me.  All their jokes and teasing and crude humor had no place in Emily’s little world.  Their words didn’t belong there among the colors; they were like dust that veiled the canvasses, obscuring the brightness until only murky grays and shadows remained.

Sam was the only one of my friends who never made fun of me.  I think he understood.  Some people wonder how we get along, but it’s his willingness to accept anything about anyone that means he’ll always be my best friend. 

To this day, I’m not exactly sure what I felt for Emily Harrison.  Sometimes I was sure that I liked her.  There were also times, usually when I saw a new painting of hers in the hallway, when I felt that there was more to my feelings than a simple crush.  But there were also times when I’d pass her in the hallway – without speaking to her, of course – and not feel so much as a twinge of butterflies in my stomach.  In the end, I decided that it was her art that made me notice her.  There was nothing all that extraordinary about Emily, other than her capacity to create.  Still, that was a special enough gift in itself. 

Sixth grade passed.  Summer came and went, fading into the changing leaves that marked the beginning of the new school year.  I was a seventh grader now, older and arguably wiser.  Wise enough to see that there was a price to be paid for living in your imagination.  The real world, with its chaos and despair, was the antithesis of Emily’s bright, simple dreams. 

In time, the difference between dreams and reality began to eat away at Emily.  She began experimenting with ways to alter her reality, or at least her perception of it.  Slowly but steadily, she began to slip away.  And the world just stood by and watched as she consumed herself in the flames of her own genius, burning away until nothing remained but ashes. 

And, even though I cared, I was just as guilty as anyone. 

What happened to Emily Harrison wasn’t fair.  All she asked of life was that people be kind and love one another.  She wanted the world to be a special place.  She wanted magic. 

But the thing that always gets me is that there is magic in the world.  There’s magic in everything.  But she was too absorbed in the splendor of her own dreams to appreciate the little things that were right in front of her, every day. 

Every gift, no matter how small, ultimately comes with a price.  And, in the end, it was a price that Emily paid.

Sometimes, when I’m standing outside and catch a glimpse of birds and bright flowers, I think about her. 

Sometimes I miss her still.  

-Swellish