Paint.

 

A white van strolls through the gray Virginian landscape. In its driver's seat was a middle-aged Mexican man, hands and arms covered in white paint. In the backseat was a small two-year-old girl, wrapped in coats and a seatbelt. Around the girl was a respirator, buckets of paint, paint brushes, and tools.

 

One year before this drive, all the girl remembered was the emergency room.

 

“Un agujero en su corazón.”

 

Around her was her mom, older sister, and pediatric doctors watching her slowly succumb to anesthesia. Her father was nowhere to be seen. He was in the Sherwin-Williams shaking in the breakroom, trying his best not to cry.

 

The van rolls in front of a house, not theirs, but the one they lived in. He parks, grabs his daughter, and carries her inside. The girl holds onto her father, shaking, breathing him in.

 

Paint.

 

Strong. Unyielding. Comforting. The first scent she has smelled of him in a year. The mom comes out.

 

“¿Puedes recoger a Geli más tarde?”

 

The father shrugs and walks in the door. The mom crinkles her nose. An argument happens. One daughter in his arms, the other a centerpiece in this argument. All the while, the girl in his arms is falling asleep, smelling the paint on his shirt.

 

Smelling paint isn’t good for a two-year-old, but neither of them is thinking of that right now. The mom just wants to know if her daughter is being picked up. The father just wants to drink and watch the game. The girl is forgotten in the arms of paint-stained arms.

 

Years later, the girl turns into a woman. She has problems, too many of them. She lies on her side in her bed, scrolling through the hellish landscape of social media. Short form content. Long-form videos. Whatever the hell to help forget why she is crying. In her arm was a worn Dalmatian. Cheap fabric. Walmart brand. Won by chance. It’s ugly. But she’s not holding it because of the Dalmatian on the outside. She’s holding it for the shirt on the inside.

 

Years ago, the stuffing had left its body. She cried for days as the Dalmatian slowly flattened. One day, after waking, the Dalmatian was no longer flat, but not necessarily full. She smelled the plush dog.

 

Paint.

 

A white shirt used as stuffing.

 

Years later, the smell never went away. It lingered in the Dalmatian’s body even after the washes. It’s not good to inhale the smell of paint for almost a decade. Yet she didn’t care.

 

Her phone vibrates as she receives a call. She hurriedly wipes her tears and clears her throat. She answers. Her dad, after work, after painting.

 

“Mama, you doing okay?”

 

She forces a yes, gripping the Dalmatian's body and the shirt inside.