I quickly averted my eyes (which were stupidly swimming with tears), and sniffed abruptly.

“Sorry,” I hastily apologized, sitting back on the couch, blanket wrapped around me tightly.

“No need,” he said, and went back to looking at the drawing. He continued reading for a while before I started getting really sleepy.

I was way too tired to move now – I was also a little busy reminiscing.

Mama always used to sketch little pieces like that. Sometimes, once in a while, when I’d ask and plead and beg with all my heart, she’d sit down and paint a huge canvas adorned with all the colors of the spectrum, and I’d watch, fascinated, as the painting came alive.

I never questioned Mama’s talent, or how she acquired it.

I had several of her sketching notebooks.

She drew beautifully, and tried teaching me, but I was clearly cut out for literary work. I remember her words.

“What you draw comes from inside – it doesn’t have to be something you see…but don’t turn into another Picasso, okay?”