Yesterday, Mattie appeared on the wall.
Right in the corner, where the joint meets the frame of the door. There has always been a stain there, irregularly shaped like the body of a child kneeling at play, one hand clutching a crayon that I always imagined to be green. The stain appeared slowly; a head first, then a tentative reaching hand, moisture and mould adding depth and shading to the little figure, but always it was vague, hazy, left mostly to my own imagination. Michael said it was a sign that there was moisture hidden behind the soft pink walls, that it meant we should move, or pester the landlord to fix the bad drainage from the upstairs suite. I said it meant the house had spirit, but Michael only scoffed.
Michael doesn’t see Mattie on the wall. He only sees the same old stain, the familiar contours. I know this even though I haven’t asked him; haven’t mentioned the revelation. I know if I did he would look at me in that painful, sickening way I have become so inured to; the crinkling of pity at the corner of his eyes, the stern set of exasperation in his normally gentle mouth, all hiding the depth of grief he tries so valiantly to shield me from.
But Mattie has appeared on the wall. The lines of the stain have hardened, grown rigid and set so it seems more like a shadow than a stain, and I recognize Mattie in the tilt of the head, in the slope of the shoulders. When I reach out and trail my fingers across the tiny clasping hand, I can almost feel Mattie threading his fingers through mine as we walk down the sidewalk. I can see the thick green lines he would draw on white paper, and the shape I would have to interpret, weathering the storm if I guessed incorrectly.
It is Mattie on the wall. When I press my cheek to the softening plaster I can feel the gentle give of his baby-soft skin, smell that scent that was only his, the fresh clean smell of your child that you would know anywhere.
His mouth, in the stain, is open as if engaged in one of his incredible stories, the stories I wish I had catalogued, never bothering, never thinking I would never hear another. I should have notebooks full of his long, rambling tales, with nonsense characters and superheroes battling the forces of Mr. Clean and the dreaded army men. Childish tales bronzed and lifted up by their new absence.
People think I have lost myself in grief. They think I am a ghost, wandering the corridors of this empty house, but they are wrong. Yesterday Mattie appeared on the wall, and I am no longer alone.
Image by April Milne.