An evening under gray skies and chill within aisles of color and artistry and masterpieces.

The artist splashed the canvas, coloring it with depth where it once was stark, blank.
His wrist in motion, his aged yet agile fingers traced the air, listening, then responding with ease.
And then, he tilted Tristan’s head just a little more,
our son’s piercing eyes catching his own, true artistry seeing in that moment all the questions, the ambitions,
the vision that his eight years have contained, and how they have only begun.
And after the canvas filled with a life all its own, the essence of our son embodied with thick strokes and steadied lines, a resemblance somehow his spirit and his future both,
his young eyes widened and silently soaked it in after patient, breath bated waiting.
But later in reflection of our beautiful time,
because with even even in the gray chill of the evening
it really was a masterpiece just to be a part,
he declared,
with all the pride and honor of one who has been understood,
”I look like a sea captain!”