Colours transport me back to my childhood. As I finger my children’s crayons, I am tempted to rub my fingers along them, digging in my nails to see bits of colour under my fingernails.
I remember running in the driveway after my dad’s car, shouting to remind him of his promise to get me colours. That evening, I was given a box of crayons, that I took to my room. I sat on the floor next to the bed, hidden from view. I opened my box and there were so many of those glorious colours. I slipped off the paper covering of a few; some were difficult to remove and needed force. So, I broke a couple of them at least.
To this day, I forgive my children for wanting to use them on all surfaces, including tables and walls. I am tolerant when the colours are broken. I collect all the stubs and put them in a transparent plastic pouch, which already have tens of other stubs that my nephew has outgrown.
Every morning, I walk slowly up steep hill sides and mountain steps, holding my little one’s hand, keeping an eye on my older child’s step and take them to their loving teacher who hands down to them her love for vivid, thick colour. She draws, sketches, fills in with the oil pastels my children carry.
When I come to fetch my children, they excitedly show me what they have been drawing and colouring and I am transported back to my own magical adolescent years when canvas, brushes and colours were my medium of self expression.
I see the same joy taking over my children.