Four years old, on the floor of
Papa’s studio. Out of the way and not a
distraction, like she promised, with all the gravity of a preschooler
taking an oath, small voice and serious face. Holding his little cup of special
brushes, for the specialest projects. (Most special.)Running the soft bristles over
her little fingers and her cheeks, closing her eyes when they get too close,
the quiet strain of his radio drifting overhead. Feels nice, feels soft-soft-blue, like the skies Papa
paints, and sunshine-through-the-window-warm. Wondering if Papa has extra paint, just a little, to share so she
can try too.“Ami—stop it, don’t touch those,
you’ll ruin the bristles—where’s that book your mother left with you, you’re
supposed to be learning to read—”Stoppiting quick. Don’t touch.
You’ll ruin.Back to the book. Already knows how to read like Mama, doesn’t
know how to paint like Papa. Don’t touch. Wrong learning.Out of the way and
not a distraction, like she promised.Holy shit, this is so good and I’m gonna fight you how dare you make ME SAD WITH THIS.
HOW DARE YOU PUT AMI IN A CORNER WITH HER FATHER PAINTING AND IGNORING HER
WHAT THE FUCK FIGHT ME
IT’S GOOD IT’S SO GOOD I HATE THE FEELINGS I’M GETTING FROM THIS
SittingOverHereDreaming 