I stand with my feet spread apart,
a canvas steadily propped on the easel.
I straighten my back, gazing at the subject in front of me,
and as my teacher whispers words of advice,
my body feels thrown
ten years back,
to the place where I first held a brush and dipped it into paint,
the place that held my moments full of joy,
and that cradled me when I dissolved into tears.
The place where I was first given the idea
of using colors, shapes, and lines, to describe my thoughts.
To put paint on paper was ultimate freedom,
the closest I could become to flying-
soaring like the birds that would perch outside of her small studio,
posing for us to render them on paper.
I am nine years old, and it is a quiet summer evening-
the kind where humanity feels muted by nature’s glow,
and people seem to grow quiet.
The earth awakens from an afternoon nap,
and sings its ode to the sun.
And naturally because it is one of these quiet summer evenings,
I sit beside my best friend.
My friend who has truly lived,
seen a countless number of these summer evenings,
and sat with me for hours-
placing pencils and brushes between my fingertips.
Has it faded, or does it only gleam brighter with her years,
as she collects family photos,
recipe scraps from magazines,
and prayer cards from her friends.
I watch her look at the backyard beyond our little studio,
and her eyes shine like those who have discovered new worlds.
I see warmth within them, her heart aflame-
as if it is the first time she has ever seen a sunset.
It is the same look I know my eyes hold, ten years and two seasons later,
as I stand with my feet apart-
a canvas propped on the easel in front of me.
Lucia Williams
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