The Artist

I have long looked forward to the day that Lucas would finally create something. The day when he would finally put a crayon to paper, instead of trying to eat it. We've tried this before, it hasn't worked out.

But today was different. I brought out the easel and he dove into the crayons. He grabbed the brightest blue there was in the tray and scrawled haphazard lines across the paper. He took out color after color and put them all to paper. Eventually I taped the paper to the floor, and he squatted over it to draw, and that seemed to suit him much better.

Mostly, he just dotted the paper but every once in a while the crayon would sweep across the vast white expanse. In the beginning he looked up at me each time, for the approval I was quick to give. But soon he didn't look up at all. He concentrated on the movement and the newness of it all. Perhaps today he saw a new depth of his power, that tremendous power of creation within himself. Because he had made something where there was nothing before. Because there was new color in the world, and it was all because of him.


And I realize, we must feel an awful lot alike in moments like this. While he looks at his drawing through lenses tainted with child-mind magic; I'm looking at his silk-spun hair and satin-smooth skin and breathing in that sweet baby smell he still has. I watch him work with wild abandon, and I am in awe at the power of creation within myself. Because I have made something beautiful where there was nothing before. There is new color in the world, because he is mine.
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