What We Miss
I have been working all night on a paper globe, and I have painted the countries with increasing precision. I think I have got it all right, the angles, the spaces, the tilts and curves. I put it on my desk, carefully under the fan, so that it can dry.
Moments later, my son comes with a glass of water. He pours it all over the globe. In disbelief, I watch the paint smudge. The majestic countries drip off, one by one, till they are reduced to mere puddles on my desktop. Grief stricken, I look at my son, with teary eyes.
He wraps his arms around my neck, and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek.
“You had forgotten the oceans,” he says.
even my windowpane