A Conversation Between Two Artists

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Grandfather:
You’re holding the brush too tightly again.

Granddaughter:
I’m afraid the color will run away.

Grandfather:
It always does.
That’s how you know it’s alive.

Granddaughter:
When you painted, did you know what you were making?

Grandfather:
No.
I only knew when to stop touching it.

Granddaughter:
People ask me what my art means.

Grandfather:
Tell them it means you were paying attention.

Granddaughter:
I still hear you when I hesitate.

Grandfather:
Good.
That means you haven’t replaced listening with confidence yet.

Granddaughter:
Sometimes I think I’m not good enough.

Grandfather:
Neither was the first morning.
It arrived anyway.

Granddaughter:
You never corrected my poems.

Grandfather:
I corrected your courage instead,
by leaving it untouched.

Granddaughter:
Do you see what I make now?

Grandfather:
I see how you pause before the last stroke.
That pause is mine.

Granddaughter:
I wish you could sit with me again.

Grandfather:
I do.
Every time you wait
instead of rushing.

Granddaughter:
What should I teach, if I ever teach?

Grandfather:
Teach them how to sit with a blank page
without apologizing to it.

Granddaughter:
And if they’re afraid?

Grandfather:
Pour tea.
Fear listens better
when your hands are warm.

Granddaughter:
Is art supposed to last?

Grandfather:
No.
Only the looking does.

Granddaughter:
Then I think I’m doing all right.

Grandfather:
I never doubted it.
You were my last lesson,
and I took my time with you.