I am going to paint! I will paint Little Gray. Gray, gray, swish, gray. I love to paint.
Violet is inside baking. Bill sets my special easel up in the field. He gives me brushes and squirts of paint, circles of many colors I can choose to use.
“Paint away, Queenie Grace,” he says. “I’ll be mowing the yard.”
Bill the Giant pats my back. He saunters away, a quick shuffle-shuffle limp-limp, wearing sneakers and torn shorts and a white T-shirt.
I smell the gasoline, hear the familiar putt-putt-putt. Bill pushes; tall grass disappears like magic. I love the smell of cut grass. Bill sings as he mows.
“‘Amazing Grace,’” he sings loud and strong.
Twilight, Saturday sky streaked with purple and pink and blue. I add colors to my painting of Little Gray.
“How sweet the sound,” Bill the Giant bellows.
But then there is no song. Something is wrong. My friend Bill has fallen. Bill lies on the ground. His face is down. The mower continues to putt.
I run. I try to push him up.
Bill, my keeper, my friend, my mahout, does not move. He lies still. But he is not sleeping.
Bill’s face presses grass. I trumpet; I bellow; I wail. I push the running mower away from his face. I trumpet again.
I will not stop until someone comes to help!