My hand holds no brush. This dish is what I have. And children, lovely clatter of voices flooding the days. Eggs scrambled, boys off to school. The little one plays dolls while another sleeps, her weeks- old breath rowing ceaseless, hungry while I dream canvasses stretching outlines on ocher- soaked linens, Earth- dug umber, sienna, yolk yellows, wet, oily and waiting to bleed thick and gummy from the brush,the scent an e...