The Painting

I wish Gaia would cease off with the birthday parties. She thinks the cake is a surprise, but I smelled her intentions, and her cake, the moment she peeked her head through the door opening, announcing her arrival from Rome. The date checks, it’s all too obvious.

“Come on, Marcus. You look like you swallowed a jug of lemon juice,” Hilaria says. Mother gave her a fitting name. Even as an infant, Hilaria looked like she was about to say something funny, at least in her own mind. She’s had a permanent smirk on her face since she didn’t know how to speak.

I shake my head. “I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired. Are you getting old?” She’s 10 years younger than me and she really likes to remind me of the fact. In normal circumstances, I would oblige. Maybe take a jab at her unimpressive poetry career. But this day. This day irks me.

Antonia’s high-pitched voice reaches me from behind her mother who’s holding the unsurprising cake filled with ricotta-filling and jam. “Uncle. Are you an old fart?”

“Yes. I am.” It’s better to yield to her. She’s too sharp for her own good. She’s a child, yet she looks at me like she knows everything about me.

Then, she smiles. It’s a suspicious smile. One that makes me wonder what her end goal is. It’s not to delight me, that much is certain.

“I made you a gift. Will you promise to cherish it forever?” She squints her beady little eyes. This is a trap of some sort. I know that look, I know it too well. She’s fooled me too many times before, I know not to trust anything she says.

Gaia gives me a sharp look. ‘Say that you will’, she says without words. She gazes pointedly at the cake, as if I would care if I didn’t get any. She thinks her child is filled with compassion for others. Not for me, I’ve found out.

I sigh. “Sure.”

“Splendid!” Antonia shrieks and proceeds to present me with a flat, wrapped up gift.

Gaia places the cake on my table and starts to slice it in pieces. “Open it, Marcus. She spent a lot of time making it.”

And so I do. Inside there’s a painting on a wooden plank. There are multicolored oval-shaped stains on it. It’s not as bad as I feared.

Antonia beams at me. “Will you promise to hang it on your wall?”

“What is this?”

“Will you promise?”

“Fine. I will.” I shouldn’t promise anything, but she’s driven me into a corner.

“I made it with my butt!”

My mind numbs. I stare at the painting. Now the shapes make sense.

Gaia gives me a small, apologetic smile. “I tried to make her do it with her palms but she insisted.”

Of course she did.

“Will you hang it on your wall, Uncle?”

“You made a promise.” Gaia continues to smile. It’s hard to know if she’s in on the joke or just proud of her daughter’s butt-painting. I can swear I hear Hilaria snickering in the background.

“...Fine.”