An Awkward Silence

Glynn Sharpe

I watched her draw while the dust from the country road billowed around the passenger seat window. She held the red felt-tipped pen in her slight hand like it was an extension of her self. Small squares of yellow memo pad paper were scattered in her lap. It was all I could scrounge up in hopes of keeping a four year old sufficiently occupied for the drive to her grandmother's house. Red suns, smiling faces and sunflowers bobbed gently with the moving car. Her face was somber and serious. I continued to drive on, glancing periodically at her as she sketched and ripped and arranged her tiny canvasses of art. Not a word was said and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the silence. I felt it was my obligation to entertain her somehow and tried to engage her in conversation.

"So tell me sweetie," I asked, "what's your favourite colour?"

"I love all the colours," she said, not taking her eyes from her work.

"Okay. What's your favourite food then?"

"I love all the food," she replied.

I was intrigued and pressed on.

"What's your favourite day?"

She stopped for a moment and looked at me. Her eyes were clear green skies surrounded by flecks of yellow.

"I love everyday," she said and returned to her work. I watched her as she put the final strokes on what looked like a dog or cow.

I let her draw, uninterrupted, and listened to the lyrical ping of pebbles resonate off the underbelly of my car.

Copyright ©2000 Glynn Sharpe. All Rights Reserved.

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September, 2000 Issue #53

256 Words

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