Soft white tendrils of clouds flick across the deep blue horizon as the little boy slips through the tall sunflowers. Flowers lick at his nose, threatening giggles that would most certainly give him away.




The little boy runs aimlessly through the garden; what he can’t avoid is the hot sun pouring down his back, the dusty pollen sneaking into his nostrils, the long grass tickling at his ankles.




He is sweaty, but he doesn’t care. He runs happily through the breathtaking garden, picking flowers from the blue and white pots littering the pathway. The bright sun reflects of the cool water of the river: the little boy longs to jump in, to cool off and relax. But he is far too busy.




“Michel!”




The little boy giggles, running faster through the sunflower forest.




“Où êtes-vous?”




The little boy continues to run, throwing his arms out to his sides, running his hands through the prickly leaves of the flowers, wishing he could stay out there forever.




“Viens ici!”




The little boy sighs: his father needs him. He abandons his game and skips through the garden forest down to the river.




His father sits in front of a blank canvas, watching boats glide past on the crisp, cool ocean.




“Que dois-je peindre?” his father asks, rubbing the scraggly beard on his angular chin.




“Moi!” the little boy exclaims. He reaches over to grab his father’s paint brush, dancing around and painting the air.




His father laughs and whisks the paintbrush out of his hand. “Fils Désolé, mais j'ai besoin de peindre,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows.




The little boy smiles and turns back to the garden. He skips back to the blue and white flowered pots along the walk and stops next to his wagon. He turns back to gaze at his father, and sees him looking.




“Attendez, restez là.”

The little boy stops, watching his father turn his canvas to face the garden. He picks up his brush.

And he begins to paint.