The paintings rarely stayed inside the canvas.
The mop waited more patiently than anyone else.
Every Monday morning, the young painter unlocked his studio.
Before opening the paint jars…
he opened the windows.
Not for fresh air.
For seagulls.
“They dislike knocking,”
he explained.
Nobody questioned that.
The seagulls had developed excellent manners.
Today’s painting was a fishing boat.
The sky looked disagreeable.
The waves looked even more determined.
Halfway through the second brushstroke…
water began dripping onto the floor.
The painter sighed.
“Already?”
A bucket quietly volunteered.
It had been expecting this.
The baker arrived carrying warm bread.
“You’ve started the sea too early.”
“I know.”
“It usually waits until lunchtime.”
“I changed the clouds.”
“That explains it.”
Neither of them sounded surprised.
Soon the floor disappeared beneath shallow water.
Tiny fish inspected the paintbrushes.
A crab examined the easel.
One determined seagull refused to leave the frame.
The painter gently nudged it.
“I’m still working on that corner.”
The seagull looked offended.
“It was my corner first.”
That seemed difficult to verify.
Grandma arrived with towels.
Not because of the flood.
Because painters forgot towels whenever it rained indoors.
Grandpa followed carrying rubber boots.
“I’ve brought the studio shoes.”
“The ordinary ones?”
“No.”
“The ocean pair.”
Naturally.
A little rabbit stood in the doorway.
“Shouldn’t someone stop the painting?”
The baker looked puzzled.
“Why?”
“The storm is escaping.”
“It usually comes back before sunset.”
The rabbit accepted this as useful information.
By afternoon…
the waves reached the workbench.
The painter calmly added another gull.
Immediately…
three more landed inside the room.
He frowned.
“I only painted one.”
The oldest gull tilted its head.
“We brought cousins.”
That seemed courteous.
Just before evening…
the final brushstroke touched the horizon.
The sea paused.
The gulls flew back into the canvas.
The waves quietly climbed after them.
The floor became dry again.
Grandma folded the last towel.
Grandpa removed his boots.
The rabbit looked at the spotless studio.
“I don’t understand.”
The painter smiled.
“I don’t either.”
He hung the painting on the wall.
Then reached for tomorrow’s blank canvas.
Grandma glanced at it and asked,
“What are you painting next?”
The young man looked thoughtfully at the empty canvas.
“I was thinking…”
“…something with butterflies.”
Grandpa quietly picked up an umbrella.
Nobody laughed.
The umbrella…
appeared to think it was a sensible precaution.
Livora Gracely 
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