MICRO SKIRTS

"Well, she was drunk. Who knew?" I said, glancing over at my mom, sitting on the couch, knitting again. She’d developed this habit earlier in the year, and I still didn’t get it.

Knitting? Really? She wasn’t that old, but there she was, making sweaters and hats like she was preparing for grandchildren. It was annoying as fuck, but she seemed to enjoy it, so whatever.

I had to admit, though, the stuff she made was pretty cute—different colors, textures, designs. I guess that’s her thing now.

“So, Mom,” I started, adjusting myself in my chair to get a better angle on my painting.

I was working on a sunset—almost finished. The sky, the waves, and the shifting shades of blue in the water were coming together nicely. The beach and sand were done too, and I was just adding the final touches to the sun. It’s funny how you don’t realize you’re good at something until you try. I never knew I could paint until this year. It’s not like I grew up doing it.