Sent from my iPhone.
As he does so often, my brother had sent me a picture he’d snapped. Were they still in California? Did they go to Houston to the Rothko chapel? Who knows. The note said nothing. It just included the picture.
I love Rothko. I’d hang one in the living room if I could and would be happy for the rest of my days.
I know not everyone feels that way. I suspect they think, somewhere in the back of their heads, “Heck, I could do that,” which of course they couldn’t.
I grabbed my pen and took to my tablet. “Heck, I will do that,” I said to myself in the back of my head, knowing that I wouldn’t come close but curious to see what doggerel I’d produce.
I scribbled. I scrabbled. And in five minutes, I sent my brother a one-picture response.
“That’s how he did it!” he replied.
I never did find out where they were.