"This is called a Pollock painting," my grandpa told me as we stood side by side in front of a blank, white canvas laying on the ground. He handed me a paint brush and said, "Dip your brush. Choose whatever color you want."

I was only nine years old and eager to learn how to paint so that I could be just like my grandpa. Listening to his instructions, I chose a light purple color from the paints that he had prepared for us. "What do I do now, grandpa?" I asked him.

"Now," he said as he dipped his brush in a yellow paint. "You aim, and you fire."

And with that, he flicked his brush toward the canvas, flinging the paint through the air. The sudden movement startled me, and I jumped back with a loud shriek and then a laugh. "That's so messy!"

"That's the fun of it," he told me with a wide grin on his dry, wrinkling face. "You try it."

It feels wrong to be making such a mess, even though this is his art room and he'd always told me that this room was made for messes. And even though I had his permission to fling paint through the air, it still felt wrong. It felt like my mom would spin around that corner any second and scold me for being so reckless.

"It's okay, Maisie," my grandpa could sense my hesitation. "You're not supposed to think about it at all, you just leave it all out on the canvas."

Pinching my lips together with my teeth, I close my eyes and then fling my paintbrush like my grandpa just did. When I opened my eyes, the purple paint from the brush had splattered a line across the canvas.

"That was good," he encouraged me. "Try again."

"What's it supposed to look like?" I asked him, feeling very confused about what the end product of this painting is supposed to be. I was used to following rules and guidelines, so it felt strange to have a blank, white canvas that needed color, but no rules on how to fill it.

"It's supposed to look like whatever you want it to look like," he told me with a deep, rumbling laugh. "Just use your imagination."

I dipped my paint brush in the same purple, and flung more paint toward the canvas. This time, I felt more confident in my movements and even though some of the paint missed the canvas, I just reminded myself that this room was for messes, and the mess was okay.

"Nicely done, Maisie," he sounded proud of me. I liked hearing him praise me, even though I didn't feel like I really did anything to deserve praise. Throwing paint at a canvas was so easy, a baby could do it. I had to work much harder to earn praise from my parents, or my other grandparents.

With every toss of the brush, I gained more confidence. I even changed colors to a lime green. It doesn't look very good with the purple that I'd already used, but my grandpa never really cared about the rules of color theory.

"You have paint on your face, Grandpa," I said to him with a high pitched laugh. It looked like as he was flinging the paint onto the canvas, the swings were also flinging paint onto his face.

"That's part of the fun," he shrugged it off, and then tossed some more paint. I loved spending time with my grandpa for this exact reason. He didn't make me follow a thousand rules, and he was able to laugh at imperfections. Nothing ever had to be perfect, and he only cared about the people around him being happy.

Once I gained enough confidence in my paint-flinging abilities, I started to really enjoy myself. I started dancing around the canvas as I flicked the paint onto the canvas. Even though I could tell that the paint was getting onto my dress and shoes, I didn't care because I knew that my grandpa wouldn't get upset about it, and would instead embrace the mess.

"That's it," my grandpa encouraged me. "Just do whatever feels right to you."

I loved not having any rules to follow, and knowing that no matter what move I made with the paint or my movements, or how much of a mess that I made, my grandpa would still be proud of me.

"Dad, what are you doing?" my mom interrupted us as I was splashing some blue onto the canvas. I stopped in my tracks, knowing already that she'd be so upset at the mess we made. "She has violin practice in an hour!"

"We were just having some fun, Allison," he insisted, seemingly unapologetic.

"She's a mess!" my mom exclaimed as she marched toward me. "There's paint all over her face."

"Maisie is a kid," he reminded her with an eye roll. "She's allowed to get messy every once in a while."

Grabbing a tissue from the shelf by the door, my mom started to scrub my face free from paint. I winced and pulled away with a loud, "Ouch!"

"Stay still, Maisie," she scolded me. "You look ridiculous."

"You are overreacting," he defended us again. "So what if she's a little messy for violin practice? It's a stupid skill to have anyway when she should be out having fun with her friends."

"I don't have any friends," I complained to him as my mom continued to scrape the paint off my face and neck.

"Well, you would have friends if your mom didn't treat you like a trophy and let you be a kid more often," he said to me, grumpily crossing his arms over his chest.

"Thanks for that, Dad," my mom grumbled sarcastically. With a loud sigh, she gave up on washing the paint off and stands up straight. "We're just preparing her for the real world. We'll clean you up on the way, Maisie, say goodbye to Grandpa."

Dreading the violin practice that I had to go to next, I ran to my grandpa. Wrapping my tiny arms around his waist, I squeezed as tightly as I could. "I don't want to leave," I complained, trying to squeeze onto him so hard that they couldn't possibly get me away from him.

"Maisie, if you make us late for your tutor, I'm not going to be happy," she threatened me, feeling very aggravated with both me and my grandpa.

"Goodbye, Grandpa," I gave in very easily to my mom's demands, releasing my grandpa so that I could go with my mom to practice violin.

"I'll see you later, kiddo," he leaned over and kissed the top of my head. He crouched down in front of me to meet my eyeline and then muttered in a very quiet voice, "Never lose your magic, darling."

"I won't," I assured him.

He held out one of his large pinkies and said, "Pinky promise me?"

I smiled at him and wrapped my much smaller, paler, pinky around his and I said, "I promise, Grandpa."

----------

I wake up from my dream with tears falling down the sides of my face. I'd never had such a vivid, realistic dream about a real memory. It really felt like my grandpa was with me, like I could just reach out and hug him again.

Realizing that it was just a dream, and that I'm alone in my hotel room is devastating. I close my eyes again, trying to go back to sleep and get back to my dream where I can be with my grandpa. After a few minutes of trying, and failing, to return to my childhood memory dream, I give up.

I wipe the tears from my face and sit up in my bed to be greeted by the bright sun beaming into my eyes through the open window. I can't get that memory out of my head now, dancing around my grandpa's art room as we splattered paint all over the canvas. I don't know what my grandpa meant by telling me to never lose my magic, but I hope I haven't disappointed him.

Without thinking about it too much, I grab my phone to send a message. I don't know what makes me send this message to Silas, but there's suddenly this idea in my head that I cannot shake.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity to show off my French, I try my best to form a coherent message.

J'ai besoin de ton aide

Which I know means 'I need your help' because I double checked it on Google Translate. Even though I know this isn't the most reliable source for translating other languages, I'm sure that it'll still get the message across if it's not perfect.

By the time that I'm done brushing my teeth and tying my hair into a messy bun on top of my head, Silas has messaged me back.

J'écoute

He responds with 'I'm listening' (I don't even need Google Translate to understand that, and I feel very proud of myself).

The next part, I don't even try to type in French because I don't even know where to start with it. So I respond in English.

I want to get a tattoo.

--------

Picture: Pollock Painting

Song: Dernière Danse - Indila