The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond by Brenda Woods

labeled for every year, beginning with kindergarten.
    Her having my pictures there made me start to feel a little less like a guest.
    Above mine were school pictures of my dad.
    My mom had lots of photos of him from when they were married, but none from before. He was so cute. “Was this his room?” I asked.
    Bibi picked at her nails and replied, “Yes, it was. Till the day he left for college. Once New York City bit him, he rarely came home except for Christmas. Summertime would come and he’d promise, but then he’d get a summer job or internship there.”
    I inspected the photos again. “We really look alike, huh?”
    â€œYes, you do.”
    Also on the wall were a bunch of his framed diplomas and awards. One said
class valedictorian.
“What’s a valedictorian?”
    â€œThe highest-ranked student in the graduating class. He gave an amazing speech. We were the proudest parents who ever lived. I can still hear his voice. ‘My name is Warren Thurgood Diamond and I was sent here to inspire you.’”
    â€œHis middle name was Thurgood . . . like Thurgood Marshall?”
    That made Bibi smile. “Yep,” she replied. “His father wanted him to be a lawyer, but from the time he was little, Warren had his mind set on being a surgeon.”
    I examined every corner of the room with my eyes. I wanted to be able to see him, hear his voice, talk to him. I felt like he’d been stolen from me. “Do you think maybe his ghost is in here?”
    Bibi gave me a you’re-a-strange-person look and replied, “No. I think his spirit is with God.”
    â€œIn heaven?” I asked.
    â€œOf course.”
    I suppose because her eyes were getting watery again, she changed the subject. “Want to see my studio? It’s outside.”
    I glanced at the photos one more time. Knowing they were here, where I could see them anytime, made me happy. I shut off the light and trailed Bibi outside to the backyard. About ten wind chimes and a hundred Christmas ornaments dangled from the patio. Some were stars and others were globes in every color. “Wow. Are these always here?”
    â€œAlways.”
    I felt as if I was in an odd, unique, and beautiful world. Like maybe we’d left the Earth.
    â€œIt’s just a converted garage,” she said as she turned the knob and welcomed me inside her studio.
    Inside there were easels and canvasses, big and small. All around there were paints and cans, a zillion brushes, and the floor was so spattered with paint of every color that it looked like a painting itself. She even had one of those wheel things for making pottery. “I’m afraid it’s not very organized,” she apologized.
    â€œThat’s okay, my gam’s office isn’t organized, either,” I told her, then asked, “Do you sell a lot of paintings?”
    â€œEnough to put some travel money in my pocket. I have a serious case of wanderlust.”
    A great new word. “Does that mean you like to wander around?”
    â€œTo travel,” she explained.
    I grinned. “I have that, too.”
    Bibi walked toward me, reached out, swallowed me up with her arms, and hugged me tight, and I hugged her back. Right then, Bibi seemed less like a stranger. She felt warm and smelled nice, like a vase of flowers.
    I rummaged through the studio, looking at this and that, touching the paintings and containers of paint. “I don’t think I have art inside me like you do because I’m not that good at drawing and I never really painted except in school art class, but I really want to learn. Can you teach me?”
    â€œYes, Violet, I will,” she promised, “but right now Bibi needs to go inside and put her feet up. The old girl is getting tired. Later on we’ll go to the market. I need some things for tomorrow’s dinner.” Like a tail on a donkey, I was right behind her.
    â€œAre you hungry or