I drew long deep breaths as I finally arrived in my hometown in Croatia. I was standing on the deck of the ferry, transporting me from Split to the island of Korčula. Usually, I’ve spent my summers on campus, where I was studying arts at the University of Split. Although I loved busy streets of bigger cities, it was nothing compared to the smaller town, which was bursting with history and culture. I loved narrow streets and old buildings made of stone, so breathtaking and picturesque, one could think they traveled back to 18th century. If only I closed my eyes, I could easily imagine old, merchant ships being docked by the harbor, or maybe vendors shouting to gain the attention of the passersby. Young sailors wistfully staring back at attractive ladies, chaperoned by wealthy gentlemen, whose bow ties were fastened so tightly, they could barely breathe.

The town was surrounded by dry stone walls and represented a great attraction for tourists. Summer months were my favorites since the little town was bustling with foreign people, ready to spend money either on restaurants or markets full of souvenirs and jewelry.

I sighed in content as I braided my long, thick and almost jet-black hair that reached past the middle of my back. Warm, yet incredibly forceful wind made the task almost impossible as it persistently blew in my face. I threw huge old hiking backpack over my shoulders and took a few wobbly steps toward the crowded exit of the ship. I mentally scolded myself for taking so many books with me. I’ve exaggerated every time and took almost every art book I owned, even though I barely had any time to touch either of them in the end. But this was my last year in college and soon I will start working toward my very own gallery. Well, at least I’ve hoped to open a little shop back on the mainland.

I brushed a few runaway strands from my face as I pushed through the crowd of people who were radiating from excitement, almost jostling one another. As I finally made my way down to the port, reflected with moonlight and city lights I took the island in. Restaurants were full of chattering people even if there was only the beginning of June. Boats relentlessly transported tourist from the island back to the mainland. Little shops were already open, offering every little thing consumer’s heart desired.

Mother and father probably already opened their shop over a month ago. Father would still be working with the fishing company if it weren’t for my mother’s talent. My mother, Ivana Varga made the most beautiful little clay statues and figurines. Her products extended from candle holders, Virgin Mary statues to depictions of island attractions. She used various ornaments and seashells to make stunning handmade jewelry.

My mother truly was a resourceful and entrepreneurial person, but my father wasn’t. He wouldn’t differentiate between individual pieces of jewelry or materials mother was making products with, even if his life depended on it. He didn’t have a clue how to attract or please costumers. And he definitely didn’t know how to run a store, no matter how small it was.

Yes, my father, Boris, was a disaster in the making, but he was a kindhearted man. All the locals knew him and absolutely adored him. He was five years older than my mother and very close to his 56th birthday. He was a plump-cheeked man with rounded belly and graying hair. His beard was reaching to his chest, which mother absolutely despised, but no matter what, he refused to shave it.

Father was a charismatic man who loved his cigars, morning coffee, and endless meaningless chatter. He was a proud owner of the 20-year-old wooden boat, which was already heavily overgrown with algae and slightly rotting on the edges. But until he still had his boat and a fishing rod, he was a happy man.

Mother was constantly irritating him with her nagging about his laziness, but she also loved him with her whole heart. They still held hands or stole a few kisses from one another when they thought they were alone. Boris may act as he didn’t have a care in the world, but he did try his best. He would do everything to see his family safe and sound, at every cost.

I was told my mother was always an artistic soul. Both, Ivana and Boris were born and raised on the island and while Boris was a fisherman as a young man, Ivana was painting portraits of passersby or anyone who took an interest in art. She didn’t have a shop then, she was still painting on the streets.

Presumably, I’ve inherited most of my mother’s traits, but I didn’t really see it. Of course, there is art, but that was mostly it. While my mother and father both used to have tawny hair, mine was almost black. Ivana has brown eyes and Boris’s are green, while mine are vivid blue. I severely lacked mother’s independence and sharp tongue, and most definitely father’s nonchalant attitude.

But there was one thing I definitely shared with my father, enjoyment in all the small little things ‒ the way wind was always rustling through the branches of pine trees, the smell of the sea salt and the peaceful noises of the waves as they relentlessly hit against the shore. I adored the early summer sunsets as fishermen loaded their boats and prepared fishing nets.

Nevertheless, how happy was I to return home, there was always an unexplained little empty spot that lingered in my soul. I tried to learn how to ignore it in time, but lately, it grew, never wandering far from my mind. The unease it brought also showed in my art, which professors thought was brilliant. My darker side, they’ve said. More than once they criticized my work, either it was too boring or tame. They desperately wanted for me to pour my soul into the paintings, the good and the bad side. I never knew how until recently that is. I never really cared or wanted to embrace such gloom. Why would I? I was raised in a positive spirit, which meant never despair or give up. My mother was the one who instilled this way of thinking, and I was grateful she did. If she wouldn’t support me the way she did, I would never chase my desires or dreams to attend the art college, or most definitely, I would’ve already given up halfway through. But here I was, still with a long way to go, however with a black stain on my soul.