zhÄnzhĆØng de huĆ jiÄ (a real painter)
dreamer, mother teases as i beg a kĆØ more before waking
the comforting tides of sleep recede after one last halfhearted tug
i'm sad to see them go, my mind stranded in the harsh waking world once more
that which i dreamt of slipping through my grasp like water
but i cup my hands to hold the very last precious drops
and feel my hands close around the smooth bamboo handle of a paintbrush
which i'm certain i did not own before
dreamer, mother admonishes as she hustles me to work
my imagination wonāt fill our bellies, no matter how many warm and fragrant bÄozi i dream of
and even if we could afford to buy ink, we canāt eat pictures painted by it
she has a point, so instead of asking her where the paintbrush came from
i leave to catch fish for our dinner and the market
these waters wink at me, told by their kin of my predicament and laughing at it
cold in both amusement and temperature in the dark before dawn
only the tickling of the bristles hidden up my sleeve to tell me that the brush is real
dreamer, i can almost hear mother sigh as i'm entranced by sight of the horizon
the sky lightens in anticipation of the sun, color coming to the world as it begins to rise
in that magical moment of beauty i imagine sailing to the edge of the world where the line of the sea meets the heavens
bottling the nascent hues in a gourd vessel to capture the pigments
but i have no boat and can only stay on the shore, waiting in the shallows for fish to bite
still, i take the paintbrush from my sleeve and dip it into the waters
an impulse, a longing, a dream
strokes that will fade in less than a shĆchen on the soon to be sun-warmed ground
as i paint in the dirt with nothing but water, my hands tingle in the chill of early dawn
dreamer, mother laughs as i tell her that what i painted came to life
i could scarce believe it myself, even as i saw the frog i painted leaping into the waters i used in place of ink
and yet now i'm sure, as i lift the brush and paint for her a single bÄozi
she stares as it becomes real with the final stroke, picking it up with trembling hands
when i urge her she takes one hesitant bite, then another
it is warm and fragrant and real
i'm already painting more
i'm a real painter now, i tell mother, now years later
my work is bought for no small amount of taels these days and we have enough money to buy all the brushes and inkstones and pigments i want
i still keep the magic paintbrush tucked into my sleeve
sometimes i still wake up before the rooster calls the sun into the sky
to sit on the shore, even though i have a boat
watching colors bloom into existence where the line of the sea meets the heavens
imagining myself sailing to the edge of the world, bottling the nascent hues into a gourd vessel
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