TERRIBLETHINGS.

i.

♪ 𝘉𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘐'𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝘛𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐'𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 ♪

"Dad?" my four-year old son approached me one day — his wide, brown eyes filled with curiosity, a trail of drool was there in the corner of his lips, and his hair was disheveled probably from playing — with a rectangular frame locked in his arms.

I immediately recognised what it was. For ten years I have that in my possession, three of those years it was just lying somewhere in our house's attic — the framed painting of my husband, painted ten years ago.

From that frame and the look on my son's face, I knew what was coming. "Yes, baby?"

He lifted the frame, flipping it over, and there I saw the most beautiful man with the brightest, most genuine smile that I've ever seen.

I remember the day I painted that breathtaking scene. It was between fall and winter in Canada, 2010, the trees were naked in the season and bright amber leaves were scattered on the streets. The once healthy and green foliage of the trees were replaced by patches of snow, indicating that it was almost winter. Piles of dead leaves covered the entire streets and in the air a mixture of leaves and snow were falling.

It was almost perfect, if only I hadn't been strolling alone, envious of the couples walking hand in hand, their faces painted with contented smiles. I sat alone on one of the street benches, a canvas was resting on the easel standing in front of me. A scenery of orange and brown was painted on the canvas, yet I still felt like it was empty. Other painters sat across and beside my bench, their subjects were the couples passing by.

"Excuse me," a painter asks a passing couple. "Would you like a painting? It'll only be a few dollars." Then the couple would smile and agree.

Commissions weren't my thing so I just waited for an interesting scene to occur which haven't for the past three hours. Sighing, I packed my canvas and easel and walked under the maple trees on the street sides.

I didn't know what went on my mind that time but I remember stopping amidst my walk and holding out my palm, waiting for the maple leaf to land on my hand. But instead, a hand overlapped mine and my eyes trailed down the maple leaf that landed on that hand

"Finders keepers," he finally says. "Losers are weepers."

I did not notice when he already walked past me. My mind was distracted and the only thing I could picture was the bright smile he flashed when he lifted that maple lead from his palm, bragging about it in my face. That's when I knew what was missing in my painting.

"Is this my dada?" I was back to the present when my son spoke.

With a heavy heart and a pained smile across my lips, I nodded. "Yes. That's your dada, Kwon Soonyoung."

♪