Naomi, age 2.

 Soon, recognizable forms emerged-smiling figures with outstretched stick arms arose from the ground, sometimes with a radiant sun above them. Other times, a small figure appeared inside a larger one; both smiling. Flowers grew up from green earth toward the stretching rays of the sun. Hearts were everywhere, even on balloons drifting up in the air. She once drew a house in a field with raindrops falling from the sky, smoke coming from the chimney, and people in all the windows. Her fits of creativity came in short, fervent, fluid bursts of unconstrained freedom, while I spent more protracted hours trying to master my expressions. Sometimes we worked side by side, both at our easels, and at other times she sat on my lap as I painted. Eventually, unable to support the family as an artist, I took a job as a waiter, and also established a landscaping business. Whenever I could, I returned to my artwork. Even now, I don't entirely understand the terrible circumstances that befell our marriage. When Naomi was one and a half years old, shortly after being weaned, Kathleen