The delicious scents of dinner being made wafted into the tree house of the young child. He knew his mother would be calling him soon and he’d have to put his paints away. As soon as he thought this, he heard his mother’s booming voice calling him to dinner. Just a little more time, just a little more time, he thought as he began to hastily finish his painting. No time for neatness now, no time for perfection! He put his fingers into various colors and squished them all around the canvas, getting quite lost in the beauty of the colors all melting together. Then his mother’s voice boomed again, this time not as sweet. Hurry! Hurry! Finish the picture! he thought. Scoop and paint, scoop and paint. What pretty colors they make melting all together. My masterpiece! he thought, quite proud of himself.
Then she was at the door of his
tree house, quite larger than life and insisting that he come to dinner this
instant. “Look mom!” His mother told him it was the prettiest
painting she had ever seen, but now it was time for dinner. Off they went together, hand in hand, talking
about all the things he had created that day.
Back in the tree house, the colors
of the sky dripped and melted into one another on the world the boy had
painted. Tomorrow he would paint eight
more worlds and a brilliant sun. Then he
would paint little people into the colorful world, so they could look up into
the sky at all the pretty colors he had painted and marvel at the beauty of it
and thank him for such a wonderful creation.
And worlds have to start some way,
after all, and this is as good a way as any other.
