My thundering fists fling the drawer open and grab fistfuls of crayons.
Gigi’s soft hands lift up a pile of paper and carry it
to the cool, white table top.
The crayons spill from my fingers onto the table,
and I climb up on the high chair, leaving my feet to dangle.
Gigi’s gentle hands make delicate strokes and soft lines.
My hands however, crash down on the paper
and leave thick, messy streaks.
As I struggle to make the flower in my mind come to life,
Gigi’s simple picture fills the black paper with creation.
We don’t make a sound, so engrossed in our work,
but our elbows bump together and say the words we don’t speak.

When we finally finish,
she picks up my mess of a drawing, and her eyes light up
as she runs her fingers across the picture.
Gigi doesn’t even glance at her own work
but sets mine where everyone can see it.
I stand up and take my place beside her,
staring at our hard work.
I lift my small fist and take her strong hands into mine
so she can continue to guide me through life’s challenges.