I first saw Billy’s room shortly after Mom and I moved
into Grandma’s house. Grandma was sick and Mom moved in to
take care of her. I guess I was about five or six when I came
upon Grandma standing in a room I had never seen before. And
believe me, I explored every room of the house with a curiosity
only a child could have. But that door was always locked until
now. Tears were streaming down Grandma’s face as she looked
at the pictures around her. I looked around the room for the
first time in amazement. To my young mind the colorful paintings
were like a spectacular rainbow of colors. Just about all the walls
were covered with them. And upon the bed and floor were
brown paper boxes of all sizes. I tugged at Grandma’s dress and
asked her, with wonderment, “Whose room was this?” Wiping
the tears from her face she looked down at me and with a smile
said, “This is Billy’s room.”
Later on, Mom told me Billy was her brother, Grandma’s
son, and my uncle. She preceded to tell me the story about
Billy’s room. When Billy was younger he got into a lot of trouble
and was in and out of jail all the time. But Grandma always kept
his room the same, waiting his return. Until one day, Billy never
came back and Mom knew he never would, because Billy finally
did the unforgivable and killed a man.
However, a part of Billy did return. He had always been a
gifted child and every now and then Billy would send Grandma a
painting from prison, and Grandma would take it to Billy’s room
and hang it on the wall or put it back in the box and lay it on the
bed or floor. I found out later the ones put back in their box was
when Billy was at his lowest point of despair and it showed in his
paintings. It made Grandma too sad to look at.
As time went on Grandma died and for a long time so did
the paintings. Until one day Mom got a package in the mail. As
she opened it a smile came to her face. Unwrapping it, as she
walked towards Billy’s room, she hung it on the wall. It was a
painting of Grandma, not sick like I remembered her, but happy
with a look of contentment about her.
After that, the paintings came regular. Until there was
little space in Billy’s room to hang them.
Years went by; I moved out, got married, and had kids of
my own.
Then, one day my mom died and sadly I took the wife and
kids and moved into the same home Mom left me, Grandma’s old
house. Shortly after we settled in I went to Billy’s room. With
hand on the door knob I held my breath. I hadn’t seen Billy’s
room in a long time. “Was it still the same?” With that child-like
expectation I once had, I opened the door.
It was as spectacular as I remembered it. There was one
new painting that stood out. In the center of a beautiful landscape
with puppies playing around them stood Grandma, Mom,
and my uncle Billy, hand-in-hand, as cheerful as the animals that
played at their feet.
Billy must have painted it shortly before he died. I remember
his funeral of sorts. It was raining the night Mom and I
walked to the edge of the shoreline and placed Billy’s ashes upon
the waves that beat against our feet. Mom then took a can of
beer from her jacket, pulled the lid, took a long drink, and threw
it out to sea, just as Billy had requested. She then said, “Goodby.”
I felt a tug at my pants let, pulling me back from my
memories. I looked down at my oldest son of six and saw the
same look I must have had when I first saw this room. And when
he asked me, I didn’t hesitate—I told him, “This is Billy’s room.”
