Pablo always had questions. He couldn't seem to run out of questions, as most other children.
The ocean had always been his most priced treasure. But he never feared it being taken away, or stolen. Things were probably safest hidden in the oceans, yet people would rarely, if at all, think of doing so, hide things there, that is.
It was another sunset, and he was in his last few minutes for the day at the beach. After school, he leaves his bag at home, changes out of his uniform, and off to the sea, without delay if possible. Sometimes his mother catches him and would often win him to snacks before going off to swim.
The ocean had always been his most priced treasure. But he never feared it being taken away, or stolen. Things were probably safest hidden in the oceans, yet people would rarely, if at all, think of doing so, hide things there, that is.
It was another sunset, and he was in his last few minutes for the day at the beach. After school, he leaves his bag at home, changes out of his uniform, and off to the sea, without delay if possible. Sometimes his mother catches him and would often win him to snacks before going off to swim.
“Ina, you will cause me appendicitis,” he would complain in between mouthfuls of tuna and cheese sandwich. “Bring along some water too,” his mother would only reply.
He sat down at the beach for a good thirty minutes, lying down after some time, looking at the clouds, the blue late-afternoon skies. I could fall asleep here, Pablo thought. But remembering he had to be out the water before the breeze started getting cold, he suddenly sat upright and bolted to the sea, leaving behind his water bottle and his old trusty black slippers, one a step behind the other. If you were watching him, even from beyond hearing distance, you would never miss his yelps of delight as he was racing toward the welcoming warm water.
He sat down at the beach for a good thirty minutes, lying down after some time, looking at the clouds, the blue late-afternoon skies. I could fall asleep here, Pablo thought. But remembering he had to be out the water before the breeze started getting cold, he suddenly sat upright and bolted to the sea, leaving behind his water bottle and his old trusty black slippers, one a step behind the other. If you were watching him, even from beyond hearing distance, you would never miss his yelps of delight as he was racing toward the welcoming warm water.
From the sea, the beach looked peaceful. He was a good swimmer. Getting toast in the summer sun made sure of that. He was a good distance away. Good thing his mother didn't decide to follow him this time.
He remembers he will have to leave, sometime, for college or something. His mother was constantly reminding him of this. But today he is still a child, floating on a quiet sea, staring at clouds, not a care in the world.
Then the slow descent of the sun changed the colors of the sky, and the clouds gathered some oranges as well. He started for the shore. He’d be watching the sunset from the beach.
His easel was almost done. He kept looking for it in his father’s studio. His father was into a new painting, and in between breaks, he assembles his son’s first painting table. He had taken measures of Pablo and was carefully putting up a little easel for him, fitted to his ten-year-old dimensions.
Pablo had many days ahead painting a sunset by the beach. Of course, sunsets are never the same, but he’d at least have similar colors for weeks at a time. He’ll paint near the same spot his mother always takes when she’s doing sunsets. A tent was put up there for this. Sometimes they might paint together. He smiled. His mother’s sunset paintings were the loveliest, and now and then, somebody, tourists mostly, would buy her display, and she’d have to make one again.
He remembers he will have to leave, sometime, for college or something. His mother was constantly reminding him of this. But today he is still a child, floating on a quiet sea, staring at clouds, not a care in the world.
Then the slow descent of the sun changed the colors of the sky, and the clouds gathered some oranges as well. He started for the shore. He’d be watching the sunset from the beach.
His easel was almost done. He kept looking for it in his father’s studio. His father was into a new painting, and in between breaks, he assembles his son’s first painting table. He had taken measures of Pablo and was carefully putting up a little easel for him, fitted to his ten-year-old dimensions.
Pablo had many days ahead painting a sunset by the beach. Of course, sunsets are never the same, but he’d at least have similar colors for weeks at a time. He’ll paint near the same spot his mother always takes when she’s doing sunsets. A tent was put up there for this. Sometimes they might paint together. He smiled. His mother’s sunset paintings were the loveliest, and now and then, somebody, tourists mostly, would buy her display, and she’d have to make one again.
“This one, I won’t sell. I’ve placed you all here, see.” His mother showed them a painting of two girls and a boy all huddled up, the three looking at something on the sand, which might have been washed ashore.
Pablo smiled. It was the time they found a starfish on the beach. Sam had seen it first, since she always walks ahead of him and Wina. They had debated over what to do with the starfish for a good while, enough for their mother to take notice and walk over to them.
“You can bring that home,” their mother assured them. Wina hesitated at first but eventually decided to bravely pick the little starfish up to examine it more closely, the undersides this time.
“It’s dead,” Pablo said coolly. Wina tensed up a bit but still held on to the carcass anyway.
“Let it dry in the sun first,” their mother said, then slowly went back toward her work. Wina followed and found a place near the tent to dry the starfish.
To this day, that painting remains hanging on the main wall of the store in front of their house. Every time somebody asks for it, his mother refuses by showing another sunset painting and explaining the reason why she couldn't sell that one, and the buyer would only seem to gladly agree with her refusal and take the other painting, still as lovely anyway as any of his mother’s pictures.
Pablo smiled. It was the time they found a starfish on the beach. Sam had seen it first, since she always walks ahead of him and Wina. They had debated over what to do with the starfish for a good while, enough for their mother to take notice and walk over to them.
“You can bring that home,” their mother assured them. Wina hesitated at first but eventually decided to bravely pick the little starfish up to examine it more closely, the undersides this time.
“It’s dead,” Pablo said coolly. Wina tensed up a bit but still held on to the carcass anyway.
“Let it dry in the sun first,” their mother said, then slowly went back toward her work. Wina followed and found a place near the tent to dry the starfish.
To this day, that painting remains hanging on the main wall of the store in front of their house. Every time somebody asks for it, his mother refuses by showing another sunset painting and explaining the reason why she couldn't sell that one, and the buyer would only seem to gladly agree with her refusal and take the other painting, still as lovely anyway as any of his mother’s pictures.
“Leave it to dry outside. It’s a warm night,” his mother replied. Pablo went out again and hung the towel near his clothes.
His sisters were already focused on the television when he came in to the living room. On the big wooden center table, in the middle, laid the starfish they found that day, in the painting. Their father had taught them how to paint it with glossy varnish to preserve it and give it a shiny coat. Their father was lying down on the long couch watching the TV as well, the baby on top of him, silently observing his older siblings. Pablo took a seat on the floor beside his sisters and watched with them some show on a kids’ channel.
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