4.22.2009

Daisy

I was drawing. The six-year-olds raised their eyebrows. “Donald Duck’s friend,” I explained. My marker drew a big fat bow instead of the spiky hairdo of a duck.

“That doesn't look like Donald.” They went deep in thought, “Oh yeah, his Girlfriend!” Malone grinned her whole fat face. “Draw him kissing her!”

I started to draw him on one side, his beak able to kiss her cheek. “NO! Draw him on the other side, kissing her.”

So I did, beak-to-beak, with two cautious centimeters between. The six-year-olds went crazy. A block tower tumbled to the ground. Someone ate something from their pocket. All faces flashing with the chant, “KISS-ING! KISS-ING!”

“They are thinking about if they should kiss. Make a thought bubble and write ‘Should we kiss or should we not?’” I drew a thought bubble that said just that, in my sly handwriting. They were screaming they were so happy. “What should Donald be holding?” I asked Ash.

“A picnic basket!” She was right. Donald was always carrying picnic baskets. Wherever he went it was always good picnic weather, or else threatening to become good weather. It might be thundering and lighting and Donald is shivering in a blanket, but the sun, his sun, always wants to join any sort of party, his weather wants to sing. Ash thought Daisy’s dress should be flowers, so I drew it as flowers.

“Make Donald black,” said Rolly. My hand reached for the brown. “No! Donald’s not black,” Ash said and Ash was black. “Donald is blond,” Malone agreed. “Black or blond?” asked Rolly. Ash swore he was blond. Donald and Daisy looked back at me desperate and foolish. They were very close but not touching. They had a picnic basket, but nothing else to do. Their world was blank and temporary.

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