Furman University

Matthews, Alysha

The Echo - 2024   25 
The Sunroom
 I’m an artist, or a self-proclaimed one. A while back, I started 
painting a red skull on a blue ombre background. Since then, somehow the 
color got away from me and shifted towards a mulberry color. That’s okay. 
These things happen. 
 I paint in my home on our patio-turned-sunroom-turned-exercise-
space	that	occasionally	gets	flipped	into	my	personal	studio.	The	four	large	
windows normally allow the sunlight to pour in and illuminate the little 
room, but this painting session takes place at night. So, the ceiling lights 
drown out any light the night might have held and diminished the windows 
to black squares against the bright room. Even the moon is hard to spot. We 
still have the same patio furniture in the sunroom from before we replaced 
the	mesh	screens	with	actual	walls.	To	flip	this	room	into	my	studio,	I	throw	
a sheet on the table, roll my easel out of its corner, and put my bag of paints 
on the table. 
	 As	I	flip	open	the	bag,	the	tubes	of	paint,	brushes,	and	pallet	knives	
watch me curiously. The newest member, a bottle of retarder, sits on top. It’s 
supposed to keep the acrylic wet longer so it will blend better. I planned to 
teach myself how to use it; it can’t be that hard. I taught myself how to ombre 
for this project, I think I can teach myself how to use this.
	 I	sift	through	my	paint	bag	until	I	find	the	correct	colors:	a	few	
different	reds,	black,	and	white.	I	pop	open	a	tube	and	slowly	inhale.	The	
chemical	smell	fills	my	nose.	I	love	the	smell	of	paint.	I	relish	these	moments	
Editors’ Choice - Prose
Creative Nonfiction - Alysha Matthews
26   The Echo - 2024 
because it won’t be long until my nose gets used to the smell and begins to 
block it out. 
 Carefully, I squeeze the colors onto my white palette. The paint slides 
out and plops onto the palette with little to no grace. I’ve always questioned 
why most palettes are white. The paint sometimes stains them, and it’s clear 
when I haven’t thoroughly cleaned it after. Unfortunately, any other color, 
besides	the	wood	or	clear	palettes,	would	make	mixing	colors	difficult.
 I squeeze a few drops of the retarder into the little piles of paint. 
Thoughts	fill	my	brain	as	I	do	this,	and	my	hands	continue	moving	based	
on muscle memory. The thoughts bubble up and overlap my focus on the 
canvas and my goals for the skull. 
 My grandfather’s face emerges from the thoughts. He wasn’t exactly 
an artist, but he was a creative, nonetheless. His home and backyard were 
his canvas. His paint was plants, construction projects, cooking, or anything 
he wanted. When we lived in New Jersey, he started making kites. He would 
bring	them	to	us	so	we	could	try	them	out.	We	would	fly	them	for	him,	and	
then later he’d come back with new and improved ones. His face would take 
a certain expression when he was in deep concentration; his usual fedora 
perched on his head while the complicated brain within decided how to best 
fix	or	create	something.	
 I can’t remember a time when my grandfather was not successful 
at something he put his hands to. Until he got sick. I guess he was sick my 
whole life, I was just young and didn’t know. He smoked for a long time. 
The smoking caused cancer, which killed a piece of his lung and condemned 
what was left to a slow death. It took time for the rest of his lungs to start 
dying. 
 I remember him being tall, strong, and invincible up until a couple 
of years before he died. It started with a cough. Then it was a bout of 
pneumonia. Lots of pneumonia. Then the oxygen tank in grandma’s house. I 
can’t	remember	which	came	first:	the	stair	lift	or	the	leather,	plush	armchair.	
All I know was soon the stairs were too much for him, so we got him the 
stair lift, and he had a tough time getting comfortable, so we got him the 
armchair. We put it in view of the TV so he could watch wrestling. WWE 
was his favorite show to watch. He would argue with you if you tried to tell 
him it was fake. Whenever he left the house, which wasn’t often anymore, 
he always wore that fedora. Even when the paramedics took him for the last 
time.
The Echo - 2024   27 
 I try to remember the good things. Before he got sick, when things 
were simple. The face he would make when he was studying the kites he 
made for us: his eyebrows would draw in and his mouth would form a thin 
line. The way his smile trembled and how tears would roll down his cheeks 
before	he	laughed.	Watching	him	prick	his	finger	before	checking	his	blood	
sugar. He did it so methodically but never robotically. I think I will always 
consider it beautiful. 
 We went to the beach a couple of times, but I can only remember 
one trip. I was young; all the waves were taller than me, but that was okay 
because Grandpa was with me. We were jumping waves together. No words, 
just laughter. A strong wave took me by surprise. Instinctively, I grabbed 
Grandpa. I guess the wave also took him by surprise. We slipped into a 
myriad of blue together. I think my mother shouted. I don’t remember how 
we got up, but we lived! We laughed about this for a long time.
 It’s 2019, November. We should be helping Grandma make 
Thanksgiving dinner, or at least setting the table, but my cousin, sister, 
brother, and I are standing in the corner of my grandfather’s hospital room. 
He’s asleep. A heavy-duty oxygen machine is plugged into his nose. I didn’t 
know they made oxygen machines that strong.  
 None of us wanted to wake him because we knew rest for him was 
hard. My mother told us so the night before while we waited outside his ER 
room as the nurse took his X-rays. I also didn’t know that there were such 
things as portable X-ray machines. The doctor later pointed out splotches 
of pneumonia on the X-rays of Grandpa’s weak lungs. Pneumonia that 
they had suspected was there the last time he was at the hospital but never 
treated. Grandpa slept peacefully after the doctor left. But we’re standing in 
his hospital room now. Last night feels like a forever ago. We studied the tall, 
strong man that was now at the mercy of an oxygen machine, a hospital bed, 
and nurses. 
 “He looks so small.” My sister bumped my hand. Maybe she had 
wanted to hold it, but I was too busy holding on to false hope. “I used to 
think he would just, you know, live forever.”
 I start to work on the shadows in the skull. The eye sockets must 
be near black, and the lightest part is where the light hits, so probably the 
forehead. Whenever I draw, I tend to make whatever I’m drawing very dark 
in value. I’m not sure why, it just always ends up that way. This skull is no 
28   The Echo - 2024 
different.	The	shadows	have	gotten	away	from	me;	the	skull	has	turned	into	
a deep purple. There’s no going back from this now. Maybe I can lighten it 
a little when I clean up the highlights and paint the teeth. I lose myself to 
reflection	as	I	continue	to	work.	
 Death is inevitable. In my grandfather’s case, he danced with death 
until he could no longer. My mother would often plan small family reunions. 
We would take over the backyard with our celebrations. Before these parties, 
my mother would pull my siblings and I aside to remind us that we weren’t 
sure how long grandpa had left. I would look at my tall, strong grandfather 
with his gray fedora. That could not be a dying man. 
 I was right. He may have been sick my whole life, but he was never 
dying	when	my	mother	first	said	he	was.	On	his	death	bed,	he	was	skinny,	
exhausted, and needed help sitting up. Watching him slowly begin to 
depend on us made me question the idea of legacy; more so focused on the 
aspect of who tells my story when I die. Who keeps talking about me after 
I’m	gone?	Obviously,	I’m	still	here	talking	about	my	grandfather.	He	fills	my	
mind whenever I create, and I subconsciously include him in my art. What 
warrants the world remembering you and at what point does everyone 
forget?
 I would like to propose that it’s the little moments. The little things 
that really showed me who my grandfather was are how I remember him 
and	define	him,	like	the	kites,	or	almost	drowning	at	the	beach.	I	think	
those little things become a person’s legacy after they die. The people that a 
person loves and cares for are the people who continue to tell that person’s 
story. My grandfather will always have a piece of my heart. I think he will 
continue to make his way into everything I create. I’m not sure who will tell 
my story after I die. I have no control over who feels the need to take that 
responsibility if anyone decides to take that mantle. 
 I start to clean up the harsh edges of the indents of the skull as I 
am once again reminded of another truth I can’t escape from: Death does 
not care what I have accomplished. Death doesn’t care if I had more to 
accomplish. Death doesn’t care if I’ve been sick or if I am the picture of 
health. Death doesn’t care. 
 I unexpectedly lost a friend and then a classmate after my 
grandfather died. As I grieved, I also started to not care, like Death. If at any 
point a person could be yanked away from me, why bother to form 
The Echo - 2024   29 
friendships? If I could die at any point, why bother to achieve anything? I 
don’t have an answer to these questions. I still struggle with that mentality. 
I’ve found things to be passionate about and people I care about, but in the 
back of my mind I wonder why I bother. I’m going to have to say goodbye 
at some point. I don’t have answers or solutions. I don’t have answers or 
solutions. 
	 While	I	figure	it	out,	I	try	to	enjoy	the	little	things,	like	painting	late	
in the evenings with my sister and brother sitting in the sunroom with me. 
My	mom	floats	in	to	say	something	to	us.	She	says	she’s	going	to	bed,	but	
then she sees we’re all sitting there enjoying each other’s company, so she 
stays. My dad walks in and peers over my shoulder before asking about 
what	I’m	painting.	I	answer	him,	and	he	gives	a	little	thoughtful,	satisfied	
frown,	nods,	tells	me	to	keep	it	up,	and	leaves	to	go	finish	whatever	mission	
he emerged out of his mancave to accomplish. 
 Like I’ve said, there’s much I don’t know. Who tells my story? Who 
remembers me? Have I done enough for someone to care? I’ve
realized that all I can do is make the most of my time and love the people 
I love. There’s still much I must heal from, but time heals all wounds, or 
at least it makes it easier. The pain is not the gaping pit it was; it no longer 
threatens to consume me. I can breathe. I can laugh now. It’s not so bad.
 I gather my brushes. I take a step back from the painting to examine 
it. Sometimes taking a step back from something can put all the details into 
focus	and	show	you	how	it	is	all	working	together.	The	teeth	aren’t	finished.	
The	flower	crown	is	not	on	the	skull.	The	highlights	aren’t	light	enough.	I	
have	so	much	more	to	fix.	Not	today.	I	leave	to	wash	my	brushes.	The	skull	
stares into the void.


English

The Sunroom

Timbes, Anna

The Echo - 2024   57 
The Woman in The Garden
Anna Timbes
Photography


The Woman in The Garden

University, Furman

Furman Magazine 
Volume 67 
Issue 1 Spring 2024 Article 3 
4-1-2024 
Table of Contents and Advertisements 
Furman University 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarexchange.furman.edu/furman-magazine 
Recommended Citation 
University, Furman (2024) "Table of Contents and Advertisements," Furman Magazine: Vol. 67: Iss. 1, 
Article 3. 
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Table of Contents and Advertisements

Furman graduates make the world better. Giving through Furman makes it possible

Furman Magazine 
Volume 67 
Issue 1 Spring 2024 Article 6 
4-1-2024 
Lives Transformed 
Furman University 
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Recommended Citation 
University, Furman (2024) "Lives Transformed," Furman Magazine: Vol. 67: Iss. 1, Article 6. 
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Lives Transformed

A new plaque on Furman\u27s campus commemorates the resilience, wisdom and connection Indigenous peoples have to their traditional land

Colmenares, Clinton

Furman Magazine 
Volume 67 
Issue 1 Spring 2024 Article 9 
4-1-2024 
Furman Honors Land That Belonged To The Cherokee 
Clinton Colmenares 
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Recommended Citation 
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Vol. 67: Iss. 1, Article 9. 
Available at: https://scholarexchange.furman.edu/furman-magazine/vol67/iss1/9 
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Furman Honors Land That Belonged To The Cherokee

Furman Magazine 
Volume 67 
Issue 1 Spring 2024 Article 11 
4-1-2024 
Q&A: Linked Descendants 
Furman University 
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Q&A: Linked Descendants

Brown, Justin, \u2709

Furman Magazine 
Volume 67 
Issue 1 Spring 2024 Article 22 
4-1-2024 
Alumni Journeys 
Justin Brown '09 
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Alumni Journeys

Furman Magazine 
Volume 67 
Issue 2 Fall 2024 Article 3 
9-1-2024 
Table of Contents and Advertisements 
Furman University 
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Article 3. 
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Davis, Elizabeth

Furman Magazine 
Volume 67 
Issue 2 Fall 2024 Article 4 
9-1-2024 
Meeting Need 
Elizabeth Davis 
Furman University 
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Meeting Need

Furman honors its most dedicated supporters with newly installed Benefactors Green

Furman Magazine 
Volume 67 
Issue 2 Fall 2024 Article 5 
9-1-2024 
A Timeless Tribute 
Furman University 
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This Regular Feature is made available online by Journals, part of the Furman University Scholar Exchange (FUSE). 
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The Sunroom

The Woman in The Garden

Table of Contents and Advertisements

Lives Transformed

Furman Honors Land That Belonged To The Cherokee

Q&A: Linked Descendants

Alumni Journeys

Table of Contents and Advertisements

Meeting Need

A Timeless Tribute

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