Last week, we had an ekphrasis prompt in my creative writing class, which means creating a piece based on a work of art. We went to the Ford Gallery on EMU's campus and had to pick one piece of art to write on. While I would love to show a picture of this, I'm not sure what the gallery's position is on posting pictures online of artwork (although they do allow photographs). Still, I hope you can get an idea of what the painting was by reading my creative response.

Lonely Waves

Maybe it had always been looming and none of us wanted to see it. Writhing tar seeping into the walls and dripping into our beds. Maybe this was the physical manifestation of all there had been. Maybe we deserved it. When there had been a We. Now there was only an I.

I deserve it.

I am faced with the waves, no one else. Not anymore. I could point to the chocolates I ate each time one left. Little cream boxes with blue ribbon, presents meant for me each morning until there were no more.

There were no more candies and there were no more people. You wouldn't know from the outside, though. They hadn't left long ago and the lawns were still well kept, or so it appeared until you looked in the back. There, trees were consumed by vines and ivy crept up walls, peering into windows.

Soft ripples echo in the air. Each one is never ending, burrowing into my heart and my palms. They bring my pulse to my throat and freeze my muscles. I move through the paint to get to the door, fling it open, dashing outside.

I turn around.

I don't know what I expect to see. There they were, as they had always been. A thin veil of security that had somehow held the water back for so long. A veil that made me believe I was safe. A veil that has vanished.

The sky is more muted than it should be on a summer morning. A bright sky with dashes of darkness. I walk down the row of neat bushes, which have guarded the house diligently.

The waves churn and part, like a snapping turtle opening and closing its beak. I tried to banish the water weeks ago, when it asked a question too awesome to understand, but I had failed to realize it was too terrible to ignore. Now it demands an answer.

My ribs expand. I feel my pulse in the palm of my hand, the pulse against the steaming cup of tea.

All the lights are out. They've been out since everyone left. I didn't see a reason to leave them on. Artwork lost its beauty when its subjects went missing.

I should cry. That's what people do at the end of the world. They cry, they scream, they run. But I stand.

Sometimes they talk about looking up to realize they're surrounded by strangers. What I would give for strangers.

I sip tea. My ribs relax. My eyes, ears, mouth, nose, are full of water. The empty windows are no longer empty, filled with an infinite sea. There is no more heat in my palm.

My ribs expand.

Heaven is filled with empty windows.