My kitchen floor is littered with colored paper, stickers, paper plates, spools of tape, paint and newspaper print. The whole place looks like a war zone as my grand kids are hard at play creating boxes , pictures, decorations, whatever spins out of their imagination.They are quiet, very much absorbed in the glue, paint and stickers that roll in and out of their hands.
A yellow piece becomes a star, dotted with random reds and blues; a paper plate becomes a balloon sporting a huge grin and puppy dog eyes.
My grandson has made a bed for his new cardinal webkinz, a bed-box complete with newspaper print sheets and folding doors so that the cardinal can sleep undisturbed through the night. It really is quite an amazing little contraption held together with glue and tape.
Another picture emerges from my grand-daughter's watercolor paints. A stroke of black, another stroke of brown and a little waif of a girl emerges, standing with her back towards us.
"What is she thinking?" I ask.
"She's thinking about the bad guys."
"What bad guys?"
"They're like tornadoes."
Even at four, she has an inkling of the precariousness of life.
"But she can control them," she tells me," 'cause she's really smart."
A few more blobs of pink and orange and the girl is surrounded by a veritable army of allies. Dabs of purple and bluish greens burble up like shadows beneath her, rendering more support for what started out as a lonely little waif.
"Done!" says my grand-daughter, tugging at my shirt.
"A very interesting picture!" I tell her.
"I know," she tells me, as though it really does not matter what I think. She knows and that's all that matters.
Her world settled at last, she asks for a glass of water.
No comments:
Post a Comment