Communicating Authentically

My childhood is painted

in morning yellow sunshine
shining through the trees in the woods
through the glass in the window
onto the floor where I played
warm and close to you.

And in afternoon green and purple and grey

like the lilac bushes
where I made my home
in childish imitation of yours
with carpets of moss and walls of flowers
and singing in the kitchen like you.

And in night sky blue

dark like the shadows
where the neighborhood kids came
to play Kick the Can at your house
because they liked it there.
Their laughter echoed through the evening
to the step where you sat with me
laughing along with them.

They are colors on a palette of time
like flowers growing around a sundial
that counts only the sunny hours.

But as for me, I count them all
because the paintbrush was in your hand.