Patience Daimes

The art studio hummed with gentle activity, the air thick with the scent of turpentine and creativity. And there, amidst the easels and canvases, stood a tiny marvel. He was about six years old, a little whirlwind of pure, unadulterated charm. His bright white backwards cap sat jauntily on his head, a perfect foil to his sunny disposition. A t-shirt, a bit too short for his energetic movements, revealed a sliver of his tummy every time he reached for an imaginary star – a frequent motion, it seemed. Below, athletic short-shorts barely contained his boundless energy, and, if you peeked closely, offered an unintentional glimpse of his bare skin. Barefoot, he stood on the cool studio floor, radiating an innocence that could melt the most hardened heart. He was there, it seemed, as a tiny model for the gathered artists, posing with patience and a slight, ever-present smile playing on his lips. You could tell he was decently fit, not in a sculpted way, but rather in the way of a child who spent more time running and playing than sitting still. He was utterly, undeniably adorable – a miniature masterpiece in his own right, a splash of sunshine in an otherwise serious space.