There are artists that live in this house. I find them bellied up to the art table, replicating ideas they see in books, intent on capturing just the right details. They use their materials enough that the crayons are never where I put them back. The pens are always spilled and busy.

Amazing, I say, because of both what the artists create, but also how they feel when they create it. I want them to remember the way this made them feel when they are adults.


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