“Oooh, are you going to paint something?” Morales asked her Tia Dolores.
“Yes,” the old woman said, dipping her brush in the red paint. She slowly drew it across the paper. Morales got a snack, and when she came back, shapes – colorful, explosive shapes – had begun to form.
“Wow,” she said. “What is it?”
“Self-portrait, of course,” Tia Dolores said, adjusting her glasses.
“What? Nuh uh.” Morales went off to play with her cousins.
Tia Dolores sniffed in haughty pride and finished her painting. She sat back to examine it.
“Not a self-portrait indeed.”
She got up and slowly walked over to the broken mirror that stood in the corner of the room. It had cracked into a hundred pieces, but she’d never had the money to replace it.
Tia Dolores smiled. “That girl doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
4 comments:
And...thanks for commenting on my blog, universalhaiku. I really like the energy and color you instill in your blog. I'll be back.
You're doing it again, Maria. Surprising me. Have you thought of looking at Ralan.com for markets in flash fiction?
Hello! I noticed you stopped by my blog and left a comment, so I thought I'd drop by and follow your blog :)
Woah, buddy - talk about an unexpected twist that makes everything fall into place!
I love this. It's such a typical interaction between someone of an older generation and someone of a clearly presumptuous younger one. It's too bad we think we know it all when we haven't seen the things that our elders have lived through.
Lol, the word verification for this is "hoard" - I think that's a bit of a stretch. Tia Dolores doesn't strike me as a hoarder if she holds on to one broken mirror, you know what I mean?
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