Justine by Kerri A.; Iben; Pierce Mondrup

terrible temper that surfaced from time to time. Yes, there certainly was a difference between what was on the inside and what was on the outside. That we learned. Not immediately. No, it became apparent with time. Once you made her mad, though, and that certainly happened, you couldn’t make it right again. She could stomp around for days on end. Yes, indeed. You yourself know how it was. That was more than just a couple of days, though. That was several years. More than a few years went by. But when she was small, it wasn’t so bad. Even if it was bad enough. One time I got her a bag of sunflower seeds. I don’t remember where I got them from, but I had them. They made her so happy. She shelled and shelled and ate as many of them as she could. The rest she planted in the garden. Right over there. Next to the spot where the shed used to be. Yes, right there. She’d be a gardener, that’s what the little thing said. She was so diligent and watered and watered. Every day she watered them. And one day, luckily, the seeds began to sprout. Otherwise, she would’ve been so disappointed. And they grew. Your mother was so proud. She was a soldier, that child. You can almost picture her there, how she sat watching over those little seedlings. Just think, some hungry snail might come by. Ah, me. After a while, she had a whole little forest growing there. Unfortunately, it didn’t end so well. You probably don’t know about it. In any case, I haven’t told you. Probably not your father either. Or has he? He doesn’t understand shit about what happened, the ignorant son of a bitch, and by God, he never has. He didn’t give a damn about it, he didn’t give a damn about it at all. The thing with the flowers ended in a terrible uproar. Yes, not with your mother, but with your grandmother. Oh, I’d nearly forgotten it. The evening your grandmother went out into the garden. For some reason or other, she went into your mother’s flowerbed. And you know, there they stood. Thirty big sunflowers with their yellow heads. And she got the crazy idea that the devil himself had sent his eyes growing out of the ground to spy on her. She moaned and shrieked. What a spectacle she made. I couldn’t calm her down again. She just couldn’t let go of that insane idea. I was forced to cut down the whole mess and burn them before she’d simmer down again. You can imagine how your mother took it. Not well. Not well. She was so unhappy. First she threw a fit. Then she didn’t speak a word for several weeks.”
    Grandpa settled into the armchair and leaned his head back.
    â€œAh, me,” he said.
    â€œIs it also true what my dad said, about how she thought there were worms in my mother’s hair?”
    â€œOh yeah, that story. No, she didn’t have it easy. It was never good again. But you know that for yourself.”
    â€œI do?”
    â€œShe wouldn’t come home again,” he said. “She simply refused to let me help her.”
    â€œI don’t think you could’ve helped her, Grandpa.”
    â€œA little more than I did, anyway, I could’ve done. But she wouldn’t have it.”
    â€œNo, she wouldn’t.”
    â€œAnd now it’s too late.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMy sweet child.”

I t’s strange and a law of sorts that one can’t go back to what was. Now that I’ve sent it all packing, there’s just empty space and a bunch of indeterminate whatever.
    I’m an artist without a work—but then am I really an artist?
    Now I think if only I had Grandpa’s painting to turn to . . . I think: If only I were Grandpa, or some other painter, safely anchored in the notion that everything can be formulated in painted reality. Now I’m wondering what I actually know about painting, or about painters, for that matter? And now something is knocking on memory’s door, and in waltzes the memory of