The evening stroked
and for a moment colors
separated,
distinct,
no amalgamation.
It was only a moment
and I remembered my dad
dipping a thin brush point.
There sat a row of attached plastic urns
each slightly bigger than a thimble
with a number assigned to each color.
The image lay bare
like a cartographers’ map of a lake.
Numbers in the center of turquoise outlines.
It was only a moment
then memories amalgamated
and my dad and my son
bled across the lines
in the sunset.
These are a couple of Paint by Number images I recall. I have been reassessing what it means to be a dad and last night the evening skies triggered a memory. So much room to grow.
Gerald the Writer 
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