Ma'am

. . .

My back slammed onto the icy pavement, and the air pushed out of my lungs. I hated this city, and I hated anything that had to do with winter weather; never mind that it’s supposed to be spring. I promised myself that if I had one more mishap, I was gonna go back indoors and cancel the day. Forget work. Coffee splattered all over the ground, the contents of my bag were half spilled out, and my phone had slid away somewhere. The wind bit at my exposed skin as I tried to gather myself.

“Where the hell are my keys?”

I turned to look for them when I saw that they were in the door’s lock. Very slowly, I made my way back to the door, careful to avoid the ice. I didn’t realize that I hit another patch of ice until I felt myself falling. Pain erupted in my head, and the world went dark.

. . .

When I regained consciousness, the first thing that I was aware of was my breath. They were slow and even. It felt as if I had woken up after a good night’s rest. I didn’t feel cold, and I didn’t hear the sounds of my neighborhood around me. It was quiet and warm. First, I wiggled my fingers and toes. Then I slowly opened my eyes. I was lying on my bed, but the space around me reminded me of the darkness with glints of what could be planets, galaxies, and stars. Above me was a warm light that illuminated the space just enough for me to see. I pat myself down and realized I was still wearing my winter clothes, including my hat and gloves.

“Oh, shit. I’m dead. I hit my head harder than I thought.”

“Oh, Bianca, you’re awake. Good,” A voice said.

“Who are you?” My voice shook a little.

“Who am I? Hmm. Well, I have many names, including whatever you choose to call me. Some call me ‘Goddess’. I’ve heard ‘The Universe Incarnate’. There’s something about ‘The Mother’ that I like. The angry ones call me ‘Motherfucker’. That one makes me laugh. What would you call me, Bianca?” The voice was warm and feminine.

I sat up slowly, “How do you know my name, and where am I?”

“I know everyone, every detail about them, and everything in the past, the now, and the future, all at once. Right now, you’re in a holding space where it’s safe for both of us to exist.

“What time is it?”

“We are outside of space and time.”

My head started to spin, “Excuse me? What are you talking about? That’s not possible.”

“It is because I say it is,” the voice said.

“This is the weirdest hallucination I’ve ever had.” I looked around for the voice, but all I saw next was the void, and what looked like distant stars and galaxies. The voice didn’t even echo.

“Okay, if I’m not dead and I’m not hallucinating, why am I still dressed in my winter gear?”

“So change them.”

“How am I supposed to change my clothes. I don’t have my closet or dresser, and if I step off my bed, it looks like I’ll fall.”

“You won’t. I promise.”

I looked down and around. I didn’t know what that voice was talking about, but there was no way that I was going to set foot off my bed.

“Would a change of scenery help? I figured this would be more… mysterious and full of wonder.”

“Put yourself in my shoes and think about what I would say,” I snapped.

For a moment, the voice didn’t say anything. In the time that it took to blink, the space had changed to a wooden floor, a lamp, white walls, and large windows that displayed the vastness of space. I didn’t realize my heart was racing until it gave one last thud before slowing down.

“How’s this?” The voice asked. “I compromised. A little of what makes you comfortable and a little of what I like. You’re still free to change, though.”

“Again… how?”

“Just do it. Don’t think about it.”

“I must be insane for doing this,” I muttered. I got up and pretended to go to a closet across from me. I blinked, and there it was: a closet, my closet with my clothes. I got dressed quickly, then sat back down on the bed.

“Bianca, I brought you here because I have a message for you. But first, I need you to trust me.”

“Well, it’s hard to trust a disembodied voice who knows my name.”

“Over here,” the voice said. I turned around, and there was a beautiful Black woman whose seemed to have a light emanating around her and dark skin that appeared as if it were made of stars and diamonds. I was in awe that there was a goddess or higher being who was Black like me. I couldn’t convince myself to look away, but I needed to because my eyes were beginning to hurt and water.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed.

“Why?” I asked.

“I can tell you’re having a hard time trying to see me.”

I did as I was told and waited. Her footsteps were so soft that I didn’t know she was in front of me until she softly touched my eyelids. When I opened my eyes, it was as if I had a filter over my eyes: from my peripheral vision, I could still tell that she was luminescent, but when looking directly at her, I could see her features more clearly.

“Better?”

I nodded. In her presence, I felt like a child, especially when standing up. At 6-feet, I was tall, but she was significantly taller.

“Follow me,” like a child, I got up and followed her to a small table, two chairs, and two mugs with steaming hot liquid. “Sit.”

“How long are you going to keep me here? I have things to do.”

“Again, time doesn’t matter here.”

“Yeah, about that. That doesn’t make sense. Time goes on because… it just does,” I said, now feeling frustrated. “Anyone who says that they exist outside of time is either a scam artist or on a trip… wait… Aw, hell. I’m on drugs, aren’t I? How did that happen? Did something happen to the aspirin I took this morning?” I let my shoulders sag.

“You haven’t taken drugs, and no one has drugged you. I need you sober and lucid. Sit.”

We sat down, and she took a sip from her mug.

“Have some tea. It’s your favorite, rooibos.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Have it your way.” She willed the tea away and sighed after taking another few sips.

“You said you have a message for me?” I nervously twirled one of my twists around my finger.

“You paint.”

“Did,” I corrected her.

“Why is that?”

“Why do you want to know? Are you asking me to paint for you? Besides, if you know my name, my favorite tea, and who knows what else about me, don’t you know the reason why I stopped?”

“I want to hear it in your words.” She then added, “I believe that you and I have much in common besides my choosing how to appear. I thrive on creation, and I like to watch all humans with creative tendencies a little more closely. Part of my job is to help give meaning and color to humanity. I believe that creative endeavors: art, music, writing, and so on, are the key.”

“So, why are you talking to me? There are people out there who are way better at their craft than I was.”

“How do you know I’m not doing that already?”

For a few moments, I don’t say anything. I weigh the pros and cons of telling her the truth or coming up with a lie. But… if she already knew the answer, what would be the point in lying?

“I got busy,” I answered. “Work and life took over. I lost my flow, lost my creative vision, and I haven’t had enough money to pay for supplies in a while. I don’t even know if I can call myself a painter anymore.”

She didn’t say anything for a while. Instead, she looked at me as if she were studying me. She sipped her tea until there was nothing left.

“But…” she continued.

“What else do you want to hear from me?”

“You still have a desire to paint. That alone makes you a painter, still.”

“Ex-painter.”

“A painter on a hiatus.”

“Ma’am, that’s what I’m gonna call you, we can go back and forth with this all day… I mean… never mind. What’s your message?”

“You need to get back to painting.”

“Well, I gathered that much, but didn’t you hear my rea…”

“Start by selling that small one resting behind your sitting chair,” she cut me off.

That was a painting that I used to be proud of. Years ago, I posted it on social media to be sold, but for so long, I got so much criticism that I decided to put it away and forget about it. I could take some criticism, but that time was too much.

“That painting’s no good.” It hurt me to say it.

“I watched you paint it, and I saw that you loved it. It’s one of my favorites, too. Don’t try to sell it using the way you initially did. Find a different way. You’ll know how at the right time. When you get the funds, you’re going to get your supplies and produce an art piece.”

“And then what?”

“When you’re done, you’ll know what to do next.”

I was irritated. I hated the idea that I’ll somehow know what to do when given vague instructions. I drummed my fingers on the table while I thought.

“What do you get out of this?”

“I get the pleasure to watch the humans I care about thrive.”

“You said some of us. Who exactly are you watching over and why not everyone?”

Ma’am shook her head, “You’re asking things that you don’t need to know.”

“So when you finally let me leave, will I remember any of this cause I’ve got enough on my mind?” I huffed.

“All of this will feel like a dream. You’ll recall the message, but other details, including our full conversation, will be fuzzy.”

“Do you know the outcome of all of this?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t tell me or won’t tell me.”

“Turn around.”

“What?” I asked, feeling confused. Her finger made a circular motion. I turned around and suddenly found myself on the cold ground in front of my house.

. . .

I got to work a little late, but only by a couple of minutes. I eventually made my way back up the steps to retrieve my keys and then the rest of my items, minus the coffee. On the drive to work, I thought about the message of what felt like an important dream. Did I dream last night? Did I hit my head and pass out or hallucinate? Should I skip work and go to urgent care instead?

The message of the dream was so clear: I needed to get back to painting, but to get the supplies I needed, the painting that I saw as a failure needed to be sold. When I got home, I pulled the painting out from its spot and used a rag to wipe off the dust. I observed the colors and remembered the thoughts and emotions I had when looking at the brush strokes. I used to be proud of it, but I let others’ opinions take precedence. I opened a package of peanut butter cookies and sat at my computer to brainstorm ways to get the piece sold that didn’t include posting it to social media.

After a couple of hours of thinking and doing internet searches, I opened my email to find an email from a friend: an impromptu art walk in two weeks. I quickly texted her asking why it was so soon. With my thoughts swirling around and still reminiscing on the dream, I threw away the finished cookie package and got lost in reruns of one of my favorite shows. Halfway through, I got a notification from my friend: she rambled on about acting on intuition, but also admitted that some things behind the scenes got messed up, and the only date they could do it was in two weeks.

. . .

I was nervous on the day of the art walk. Unlike the other artists, I didn’t have much work to display or sell. I had the one piece and a few prints of other works that I’ve sold. Onlookers stopped by, briefly talked, and a few small prints got sold, but few people showed much interest in my painting. I was ready to pack up fifteen minutes early when a woman with a short pink afro, feather earrings, and a wide grin came up to my table.

“Was this painting ever posted on social media at any point? I know that may be a weird question.”

“Yeah, it was,” I nodded.

“I KNEW I saw this before. I wanted to buy it, but by the time I got my coins together, I couldn’t find the post again.”

“Yeah, it got a lot of negative feedback, so I took it down.”

“I would say that I wish you hadn’t, but you had to look out for yourself. I was hoping to come across it again. Listen, I know you’re trying to pack up, but I would love to buy this. How much do you want for it?”

Hope blossomed in the bottom of my gut as I listened to the excited woman continue to go on about what she loved about it. I wished she had reached out to me and told me that she wanted the painting then because it would’ve boosted my confidence. I told her the price, and she shook her head. My heart sank a little.

“That’s not enough. I’m willing to give you this much for it.”

She wrote a number down on a small piece of paper. It was more than enough to buy the supplies that needed to be replaced, and have some left over. I wanted to jump up and dance.

“Sold. To the lovely lady with the pink ‘fro.”

. . .

I really hoped that in some way, somehow, inspiration would come from getting new supplies and a few nights of good sleep. It didn’t. It took a week of staring at the canvas for a couple of hours at a time and a nightmare to get an idea. The nightmare was mostly dark in theme and colors. It left me feeling on edge and low-key shaky. Everything was hazy except for one spot in the corner of my vision. That spot had a feminine figure watching from a window. Overall, it felt and looked lighter and clearer. It provided a tiny sense of hope that things would get better. When I woke up, I grabbed my sketchpad to draw and scribble my notes and ideas.

Through the weekend, I painted and stopped only to care for my basic needs. With each dab of paint, each brushstroke, each line, I became more and more confident about what the painting needed to be. My house smelled like paint, I smelled like paint, and I was happily covered in it. Still, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with the piece. Monday finally rolled around, and I wasn’t finished so I called in sick. By the end of what my work day would’ve been, I was finished.

It took a few weeks to figure out what I was supposed to do with it. I knew that I couldn’t keep it. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to share it or sell it… preferably the latter. In the meantime, I had prints made to sell if… when the piece found its new home. The answer to what to do with it came back in another email from the same friend. There was another art walk, but this time, I had a month to prepare.

The day of the art walk came, and by the second half of the event, I sold two smaller paintings and a few prints, but the one large piece, which I poured an entire weekend into, remained unsold.

I looked up from my phone to see a middle-aged Black woman observing the painting in deep thought. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t put my finger on who.

“Hello, I’m Bianca Day. If you’re interested in this painting or have a request, just let me know.”

It took a few heartbeats before the woman snapped out of her trance and responded, “This is an amazing piece. I’d love to have it displayed in my home. How much for it?”

I told her how much and she paid for it. I was shocked that she chose to pay in cash, but who was I to complain about how I got paid? I just hoped that no one knew how much cash she was walking around with.

“I’ve been quietly following your art on social media, and I see that you do requests. Do you have experience with commissions on a larger scale?”

“Not much, but I’m open to the opportunity so long as I’m given enough time.”

The woman nodded and grabbed my business card, “Good, good. I’ll be in touch by the end of the week. My name is Maxine Amwell from Amwell and Co.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of you. You’re doing a lot of good work for our community.”

“And I hope to continue to do more. I’m certain that your works will help as well.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” I shook her hand and smiled.