The Little Me
My sister has a painting
of children in old
fashioned garb:
the girls in long dresses
and the boys in ruffles
and knickers.
They’re walking down a
road
toward a gate, accompanied
by a collie.
The focal point is a
little girl and boy,
about seven or eight years
old.
They’re walking together,
holding hands.
His attention is on her.
She’s smiling.
I always liked that
painting.
The little girl looks like
me as a child.
In Northern Ireland, the
owner
of Kelly Moon Castle gave
us a tour.
We oohed and aahed at the
refurbished rooms
filled with fancy furnishings,
beautiful staircases,
myriads of statues,
antiques and paintings.
Imagine our surprise when
a painting, the same
as my sister’s, hung on
one of the walls.
We took pictures of what
my sister called,
“The little you.” It made
me feel special,
like I was the little girl
in the picture,
with Someone I loved
smiling at me.
