The cloud artist

I have so many joyous pieces of mini men art hanging in my apartment. From wild squiggly watercolours to cut-out montages, they are now moving into story art.
My Beau is the consummate artist, perhaps like his father who expels his precious feelings onto canvas, pen to paper, thought to cloud.
My latest image came via a text message from his mother. I stood silently as I viewed the image of me going home, away from the three little stick figures in a car.
This young artist was quietly upset at me leaving last night. Dawn was slightly choked up when she spoke to me. He had drawn his picture and then sobbed his little heart out.
Chicky was less overwhelmed and skipped off to his bed.
I pressed my forehead against the window, staring into the street below. The perennial questions returned. What have I done? Did I do the right thing? What can I do?
My leaving made an indelible mark on both boys, however better off we all say we are on both sides. Their little world is different and will always be. Sadly it’s not able to be remedied.
Mornings start to brighten your heart is the message someone gave me and it’s true. However dark the night before, the daylight is always welcome and warm.
I have so many cloud paintings around me, painted by my own hands. Until four years ago I had never picked up a brush. Nearly 100 pieces later, they’re mostly clouds inspired by a Constable exhibition. I wonder for a moment what they are saying to me. Some gentle clouds are sweet and elicit my friends’ smiles, others make them feel uncomfortable staring at the stormy emotion in oil in front of them.
In expressing his feelings in art I am somewhat consoled that Beau isn’t sitting on his emotions.
The canvas changes every day — there’s a story in each stroke.
It’s clouds’ illusions we both recall. I really don’t know clouds at all.