Gemotions

The aroma of linseed oil and turpentine nearly always sent a shiver of delight down Arthur’s spine. He’d spent decades in his attic studio, coaxing life onto canvas. Now, it was eight-year-old Leo, his son, who bounded up the creaky stairs, eyes sparkling. Leo’s little hands, stained with cerulean and crimson, were never idle. He would dash back and forth between his makeshift easel and Arthur’s, mimicking brushstrokes, chattering about hues and compositions. Arthur felt a bubble of warmth in his chest as he watched Leo, a tiny version of himself, absorbed by the same magic.

"Dad! Look, I tried the impasto technique!" Leo exclaimed, beaming, holding up a thickly painted flower that might have been a sunflower.

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle. The painting was a riot of color, wildly imperfect, but full of heart. He ruffled Leo’s hair, his fingers finding the familiar scent of oil paint. He couldn't help the swell of pride that consumed him.