It appears the adoration I have for everything Silas draws or paints is mutual; today he walks into my room while I am sitting on the floor working on a journal:
"Hi Mama," peering over my shoulder.
"I came to see what you're making."
He watches me smear black paint all over a square of brightly flowered fabric until the colors are gone.
"That's beautiful Mama. That's really beautiful."
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