"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up."
- Pablo Picasso
The little boy adjusts the stuffed dragon under his right arm as he huffs and puffs towards his prize. The sun is ruthless and his feet hurt from walking, but he was too excited for the penguins to stop.
“Ready?” He wipes the sweat off his forehead with his shirt, and then smiles sweetly at her.
The little girl smiles back, tiredly and unsure. Her feet were beginning to blister from walking so far.
“I don’t think it’s that way,” she pouted.
“I promise it’s not that far. We’re almost there, promise!” He adjusts his left arm, burrowing the dragon closer to his body. With his right arm, he grabs her hand assuredly - with a hopeful kind of purpose.
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For close to an hour, they run and they walk and then run and then walk. When it rains, they hide under minty pine trees of an abandoned forest in the middle of the city. When the sun burns, they climb atop of a hill towards a tree, which beckoned the promise of relief under its shade. They lay side-by-side there for a long while…gratified, huffing and puffing from the hike. All the while, the dragon sits politely between them.
Finally, they reach the Place. Their skin and clothes are refreshingly damp with sweat and rain. The moistures are delightfully indistinguishable, faintly both sweet and salty against their skin.
She looks up.
The dome is magnificent, a looming oasis built of glass and metal. Inside, colorful birds glide freely through thick, green lush. Suited black-and-white penguins dive belly-first into ice water.
The little girl wanted to see it all. But she was scared. Scared that other people would find out about the Bad Thing that they did.
She stares at herself in the glass reflection. She wonders if it’s like the same windows she walks towards every morning back at home...where people in can see out, but people out cannot see in? Everything good arounds her begins to gracefully capsize, politely making way for unwelcomed thoughts.
Her daze is interrupted when his reflection suddenly appears beside hers. And it feels easy again; all the good around her rebuilds itself effortlessly. They both laugh wholeheartedly, uncontrollably. The mirror makes him somehow look silly…like a cartoon character with too tall of a forehead.
The little boy turns to her, tilting his head proudly. “See, I told you I wouldn’t lie to you. We’re here! Now let’s get some food before buy the tickets. I want some candy to hide in my pockets for when we walk around.”
And just like that, she realized how hungry she was. Her paranoia was immediately replaced by her craving for anything and everything. They had quite a trek, after all.
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He came back with a bright orange tray overflowing with bowls of spaghetti, two bags of Doritos, a fruit punch vitamin water, an orange soda, and an Oreo ice cream sandwich.
She widened her eyes. His eyes, of course, are always bigger than his stomach. But somehow....they ate everything, except for the Oreo ice cream.
“You think the penguins would like this?” he asked. His brows are furrowed; his look is pensive.
“Why would they?” She mindlessly spindles the last forkful of spaghetti.
The little boy begins to clean up their mess, collecting all their trash back onto the colorful tray. Everything, except for the Oreo ice cream. This, he carefully slips into his pockets.
He gently nods to himself. “...They’ll like it. Because it’s cold and sweet and black and white…just like them.”
She smiles casually and nods back. Of course...so obvious.
You are on the left; I am on the right. You are Antarctica; I am the tropical rainforest. Yet somehow, we still manage to visit one other. Somehow, you (of all the auditors and artists out there), are the one who inspires me to see the world as a child.
