On a damp, boring, stay-in-house kind of day, I was a 4-year-old artist armed with a new treasure: my own big box of crayons (蜡笔). Somehow, the usual paper wasn't special enough for these 64 perfect, sweet-smelling sticks of vivid color. I looked around for a bigger canvas. If only there were hidden walls. Walls like the ones in Mom and Dad's closet.
Slipping quietly down the hall to the bedroom, I stood on tiptoe to reach the string for the closet light. Words and images filled my mind faster than my hands could make them.
A brilliant rainbow was seen on one wall, with a cheery golden sun peeking out from above. Below, a giant shade tree supported a swing for stick-figure children. Around them, flowers bloomed everywhere.
My masterpiece! All my very own magic! I look in the walls, the colors and the brightness. Joy swelled inside me. But as my creativity wound down, a thought popped up: I've got to show Mom! Suddenly I was still.
Mom called out, "Dinner's ready." After a short time, her footsteps approached, and then finally, the closet door opened. I stood nervously in the corner.
Mom breathed in sharply, then stood frozen. Only her eyes moved as she slowly looked over my masterpiece. She was quiet for a long, long time. I didn't dare breathe.
Finally, she turned to me.
"I like it," she said, "No, I love it! I feel I have a new closet!"
Now, 45 years later, my childhood artwork is still there. And in my own house, the closet walls are masterpieces, too, created by my own daughters when they were little girls.
Every time I open a closet door, I remember that, as big as that box of crayons and whitewalls seemed when I was little, my mother's love was the biggest thing of all.
