The Rooster is left handed.
I didn't think anyone else in our family was left handed until my father recently told me that his mother was a lefty.
My best friend from high school, who is left handed, taught me to associate being left-handed with being artistic.
I'm not sure if that is a myth or if it is true.
My father's mother, my grandmother, wasn't someone that I'd describe as an artist, though she was gifted in the art of crochet.
Artistic or not, my left handed Rooster spends a lot of time thinking about colors.
"Do white and red make pink?" she asks?
"Does red and blue make purple?"While The Mayor painstakingly labors over detailed renderings of the world around him, The Rooster draws in quick, bold strokes.
Great swaths of color combine with unlikely companions to form patterns and shapes that I wouldn't expect to appreciate, but I always do.
Maybe it's just because I am her mother that I admire her artwork.
I prefer to imagine that she sees the world through a different lens than the rest of us -- the three, very literal and linear people with whom she shares a house.
I wonder where her different lens will lead her. How will it shape her? What will she see and make of the world?
When we went to the beach a few weeks ago, The Mayor spent his time digging holes, burying his father in sand and building sandcastles surrounded by moats.
The Rooster wandered off on her own to gather seashells.
Eventually, she settled in near us to sort them by size and color.
Soon, our towels and mats were bordered by an unexpected flower garden.