It is barely light.
Two are awake.
Two are asleep.
The doors are thrown open, that fresh wet grass smell is welcomed. The TV stays off, instead, they get out some paper and crayons. These two draw.
‘Can this go on our art gallery?’ She asks without a stutter.
‘Smooth talking. Of course it can. Is mine good enough?’
‘Nah, needs more colour.’
The boy and the mum are asleep. The sound of the ceiling fan, rustle of sheets, breathing.
‘What’s your favourite letter Daddieo?’
‘B is my favourite. What is yours?’
‘T is. Then H.’ She takes a crayon and on her page draws a large straight line, then she crosses the line. A perfect t.
‘Is this T Daddieo?’ He ruffles her hair, smiling.
‘Yes, that’s a t.’
He is not one to believe in logical, rational symmetry. Numbers, math escapes him. He doesn’t even try to think of the world that is mathematical or inherently logical.
He prefers the freedom of words, of art, of the creative, speculation and expression. It is his love and his downfall. He loves and hates that part of himself that is excited by words and the moving image and art. It has caused trouble, you see.
His exact opposite sleeps. Two kids, one has become someone who creates her own dancing styles, someone who sings and draws and has endless imaginary games. She is him.
The natural symmetry of a family is his favourite piece of art.