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In Your Studio
I’m on your lap
in a photo I no longer have—
a toddler with a borrowed brush,
my hand caught mid-daub
on your canvas.
It was staged, of course—
your painting for a calendar
on the easel in front of us
like the month you gave me
a tool of your craft
and I mistook it
for permission—
but my brush didn’t
paint like yours.
Sometimes I wonder
if you saw it,
the difference—
or if you just liked
how I held the brush,
intent on nothing more
than becoming you.
I no longer try
to paint like you.
I paint like me—
and I think you'd smile
to see what I’ve done,
though my brush still doesn’t
paint like yours.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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