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.