The Artist’s Night Shirt

I thought you would enjoy reading Lauren's essay that she submitted for her reflection contest. She did a great job.


The Artist’s Night Shirt
My Favorite Wow
By: Lauren Finlinson

I open my eyes and adjust them to the dim light. I wasn’t sleeping. I had been crouched in this car’s tiny space for six hours and was ready to get out and onto a bed. Even if it was a bed over the water.

I haul my bag over to the edge of the dock where Grandpa heaves it on to our little boat, Sundance. I hop on, stretch out over the nose of the front seat and wait for her to deliver us to our house boat, Spyglass.

I haven’t been here since last year, but I can remember nearly everything. How to win every card game my aunts manage to set in front of me, the steep free fall that separates the slide from the water, and the moon. Especially the moon.

We would camp out in the usual spot, with smooth cliffs surrounding us that cut out all but the sky, positioned in a square like our own little room. Right by it, we’ll have to rediscover the sneaky path that we found last trip that winds around the abandoned rattle snake nest to the shallow quick sand we can play in. And this year, I’ll be allowed to ride the jet ski all by myself around the cove if I like. If we’re lucky, it will rain, and the walls around us will turn into waterfalls. I love that.

I can remember one more thing. My favorite thing. I look up and there’s my sky. If could choose one sky to live with for the rest of my life, it would be this one. The full moon hangs like a white button on a black night shirt that an artist was wearing when he used white paint. The paint has dried, now it flecks the shirt, and makes the stars.

“Wow,” I whisper.

I make a mental note to sleep on top.