In my parents’ house,
among boxes in the attic,
I suddenly found that small painting again.
My own attempt at Monet.

As a child, I would keep borrowing
the same art book from the village library.
The floor creaked.
The shelf was small.
But Monet was always there.

At the front, there was a stamp card.
Filled with marks.
I wasn’t the only one.

I painted upstairs in my room.
Focused.
The smell of oil paint,
the colours of France.

Some things know what you will do later
before you do.