I keep my paintbrushes in a plastic box
In a drawer
In the corner
Of the basement.
There are maybe 40 brushes in the box
Remnants from classes
Workshops from my childhood
Mixed together now.
I don’t paint very regularly
Maybe a gift here and there
Mostly I take the box
When a group project requires art supplies.
But
In the mix of the forty-plus brushes
There is
A particular
Favorite.
Whenever I open the box, I rifle through all of them
Looking for that glimpse
Of the paint-stained
Turquoise handle.
Its bristles paint the finest lines of any of the brushes
The most precise detailing
The subtlest shadows
The most pointed accents.
I don’t know where it’s originally from
Although the handle reads “Germany”
I certainly didn’t buy it
Anywhere over the pond.
All I know is that it’s there, in the box
A trusty friend
But mine alone
A happy secret of art and solitude.
