Steam rises from the grass. Cloud shadows cross his path as he carries the eggs back to the house. Mama’s waiting to make breakfast. Oscar’s stomach twists in a good way.

He smells sausages cooking. Mama’s standing at the stove, hair twisted up on her head. She doesn’t turn around, but he knows her face. He’s drawn it many times with the charcoal pencils Aunt Alma gave him for his tenth birthday.

His memories flash forward twenty years. Illustrating children's books with inks, watercolors, and sable brushes, he creates vivid images using bright colors and bold shapes.

Jolted from his musings, Oscar senses someone’s presence. The curtain closes; darkness returns.

“Grandfather, tell me a story.” Emily climbs into his lap, leans against him. She smells of fresh-cut grass and cinnamon.

Oscar imagines her face. He conjures chubby pink cheeks, golden curls, cat-green eyes.

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