Little Hands

Daily Note

Every day, a photograph, a poem.

From the time they could hold a pencil, writing and drawing was part of the experience at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Coloring books, drawing pads, notebooks, colored pencils, blank paper, colored paper, patterned paper, stamping supplies, art books, window art.

The window art was a favorite. Every grandkid participated. They could design art and add it to our gallery on the back slider:

The door still holds these, though gravity is pulling some downwards; a few are peeling off, but they’ve been here for fifteen – twenty years. I hear them now: sometimes silent, immersed in imagination and filling in the colors into the outlines they drew; sometimes chattering about going to the gas station for ice cream while they created; sometimes admiring each other’s work; sometimes a big sigh at a goof [there is no problem so great we cannot fix or redo or move forward]; sometimes a giggle and laughter at a different goof. Cousins in conversation, growing up together is a joy held dear.

Yes, the memories are so dear that when we had ordered new windows for our house renovation, we had to call the company back to cancel the new back slider: we could not lose that art, those memories, our love held in that door.

and so, a poem…