Thanks, Mel

(Gratuitous showing off of my beloved child, sorry. :) )


We sit on the porch, feeling very European,
as my nine year-old daughter paints
with watercolors. A stubborn sadness clings;
I try to shake it off.

"I notice your flowers are blurred," I say.
"Yeah, the kids make fun of me for it."
"Well, they look alive, as if they're
in motion." Her face beams with pleasure.

I stare longer at the captivating blend
of color renascent on the page, the purple,
blue, and pink confectioneries of pastel.
"They remind me of an artist named 'Monet,'"
I say. She laughs. "Dad says you're too nice.
I think you're ludicrous!" She's learned
the word from watching Spaceballs.

I laugh with her. "Well, instead of painting
exactly what he saw, I think he painted
more of his impressions of things." "Yeah,
that's what I do! Like sometimes, I do this."
She flicks wet droplets of paint onto
the paper. "It gives it so much more feeling,"
she drawls.

We talk and laugh, time dripping away like
in a Dali dream. Even though I still feel
bad inside, I am able to notice her,
all thanks to Mel Brooks, a visionary
Frenchman, and a buck seventy-five.