|Then I saw it — a bright splash of bold color amid the muted greens, browns and yellows.
“That one, please,” I said, pointing to it.
He reached down, plucked it from among the others, and handed it to me.
A few months later, before my 8th birthday, he died.
Even now, when I look at that colorful watercolor, I remember that he saw me, a child, as someone old enough to value and take care of one of his paintings.