I never considered myself an artist, more of a doodle enthusiast. When I was in school, both high school and college, by the end of a class I’d look down and see my terribly messy notes framed by doodles and scribbles in the margins. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’m doing it and 100% of the time I have no idea what I’m even drawing. This was sort of like that except I had a piece of chalk instead of a ballpoint pen and my margins were a bit wider — my driveway.
From the moment my little brother put that first piece of chalk in my hand, my body went into autopilot. The next thing I knew, two hours had gone by and the sun was getting ready to set. I found my hands and yoga pants dusted with chalk and a good portion of the driveway covered in doodles. I couldn’t stop smiling. I was proud. Not because I have any artistic ability at all, but because that was the most carefree fun I’ve had in a while.
“Don’t put your Twitter name on the driveway!” my cousin shouted. “People are going to stalk you!”
I’m here, I thought. Find me. Follow me. Make this inevitable.
(I really love Attachments by Rainbow Rowell, by the way.)
Later that night, it started raining. Not just a drizzle either. The angry, roaring kind of rain that assaults the awning and keeps me up at night. Too loud to sleep and too loud to hear myself think.
“Aw, all your hard work,” my mom said, referring to the chalk doodles in the driveway.
But I didn’t feel sad and I kind of found it a little weird that she expected me to.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Art is temporary. Art imitates life. Just means we get to do it all over again tomorrow.”