My niece is sat opposite me My niece is in possession of paint And a paintbrush And I’ve surrendered my hands to her.
That tickles! My face scrunches
Paint properly plastered The newspaper in front of us her dad had put down for her she swaps for plain I wiggle the digits on my Upward facing palms.
Now flip! Like this? She nods And splat SPLAT!
The One That Married Into This Via me Comes in from the kitchen. I rise from my cross-legend position And pat his cheek as we meet in the doorway Then I rest my hand on his shoulder, Trying to gaze lovingly, As opposed to smirking. He doesn’t notice the paint Because it’s warm And maybe I’ve just got clammier hands than usual. I go to wash my hands off.
Your turn! Le artiste demands My turn? Everybody turn! Great-aunties groan. Alright then.
The One That Married Into This Touches a reassuring Painted Palm To just below my back.
So ordinary We only notice the paint prints As we graze the hall mirror As we start the 30 minute process Of saying goodbye