Painting

Cramp entry: A painted landscape that changes overnight. 985 words

Every year I attend a starving artist's sale, just to see what's there. The artwork is always beautiful, and some of it stays in my home while others go to people I care about.

This time I brought home two paintings- one for my father, who absolutely adores owls for some reason I cannot fathom, and one for myself, a landscape of what reminds me of Big Sky, Montana. It might actually be that mountain, it's not quite like the pictures I've taken in the area, but it's definitely similar.

I called my cousin to reminisce about our vacation there, and we made plans to go again next year. It's good. I don't see my cousin enough, and she's the closest family I have left.

Then I drove across town to give the owl painting to my father. Not my closest relative, who lives in the same town but I only see him twice a year, and it's usually about owls. He's a conservationist, and I've gotten used to it. I know not to ring the doorbell, because it disturbs the barn owl he's rehabilitating. Instead I texted him and sat on the porch to wait for him.

Three minutes and fifteen seconds later, he emerges from the house with the barn owl tressed to his arm. Its black eyes affixed to me, and my father gave him a slim treat of something that might have once been a mouse but also could just be beef jerky. One never knew with my father.

He never offered food or drink, but the owl was well-cared for.

I showed him the painting. It was supposed to be a long-eared owl, and those things always looked cross-eyed to me.

Yet my father grinned at it. "Who's it for?"

"For you. I found it at the starving artist sale."

"They're starving because they're painting owls with too many toes." He pointed at the foot, holding the tree as it was."

"It's just what they call it." I didn't know why I bothered. I just. Sometimes I can't help myself.

"Thank you. Sometimes I say the wrong thing first. Do you want to pet the owl?"

The owl still looked hungry, I shook my head. "No. I should go get dinner."

He nodded. He watched me drive away, which was new.

When I pulled back into my garage, I slumped in the seat. I knew he was like that. I shouldn't expect him to change. There's a reason my cousin was my closest relative. I didn't even have siblings to help me understand the levels of my father.

I hung the painting of what I felt was Big Sky, and I went to bed. My father did that to me, too, just tired me out when I tried to interact with him.

In the morning, Big Sky had disappeared. In its place was a painted landscape that looked more like New Mexico with its mesas and desert rocks. I stared for a while, wondering what this meant. It had definitely been the mountain with a snowy peak yesterday. Had I imagined the interaction with my father, too? Would his painting be different today? I wasn't sure if I should call him or go over there, and then I realized if his painting wasn't an owl today, he could start the interaction for once.

Instead I took a picture with my phone and asked where that location was. Bisti Badlands in New Mexico. Since I lived in Oregon, it was a bit longer drive to New Mexico than Montana. The more I stared at it, the more I wanted to go. Anywhere new and different. I put my hand in front of the painting, like I could somehow use it like the map on my phone to show me something or somewhere else. That was crazy. Wasn't it?

I had to go to work tomorrow, and I couldn't just take off every time this painting decided to change itself into something new. But then I touched it, and I was transported to the Bisti Badlands. I was dwarfed by the rock formations. I drowned in the colors. I wandered one way and another, taking photographs with my phone. Could it be real? How did I get home? Suddenly I wished my painting had come with a pair of ruby-red slippers and the accompanying "There's no place like home" mantra.

My legs ached from walking, and I had barely seen any of the Bisti Badlands. My phone loved every minute of this walk, and I couldn't even think straight. I closed my eyes and envisioned myself in my living room in front of the painting again, then I opened my eyes and I was still there.

I opened my photographs and went back to the one I'd taken before. My throat was dry and I hadn't thought to bring water, because I had no idea a painting could transport me to a place from my living room. I touched the photograph as I had the painting, and it yoinked me back home.

Collapsing into my couch, I groaned when I realized my water bottle was halfway across the house. I told myself I could crawl instead of walk, and I leaned myself against the wall when I got there. Maybe I had overdone it today. Maybe it's just that I wasn't accustomed to that kind of travel.

I didn't want to go to work tomorrow. I wanted to call in sick and see where else this painting might take me. The world might be at my fingertips. Or, could I go farther than that? Could I see what would take me out of this world?

The question gnawed at me, and I asked the painting out loud, like it could hear me. Tomorrow, perhaps I might have an answer. For this night, I dreamed of the Bisti Badlands and another adventure tomorrow.