⏱ ~5 min reading
Vlad loved to draw. More than toys. More than cartoons. Sometimes even more than lunch — even though his mother strictly said that it was not appropriate.
On Saturday morning, Vlad decided to draw a dragon. Not just any little dragon—but a real one, a giant one, with a fiery tail and blue wings. He took some paint jars from the shelf, a blank sheet of paper—bigger than himself, because his mother had given him an old packing slip—and sat down on the living room floor.
It took time. First he drew the head - big, with teeth, with eyes. The eyes had to be yellow - like the sun. Then the body - scaly, with a green back. Then the wings. The wings had to be blue, like the sky after a thunderstorm. And the tail - it had to be exactly burning. Red. Orange. Yellowish. Like a bonfire.
When Vlad finally finished, he stood up, rubbed his tired knees, took a step back, and looked around.
The dragon turned out wonderful. Not like the one in the pictures — but his own, unique. With a slightly crooked left wing — because Vlad was in a hurry. With one big eye and the other small — like a cunning cat. He was alive — Vlad could feel it.
"Dad! Go look!" Vlad shouted.
Dad came from the kitchen with a towel on his shoulder. He looked.
"Is this your new friend?"
"Yes! His name is... I don't know yet. I'll think about it.".
Vlad was about to hug his dad out of happiness, but suddenly he noticed his hands.
They were… all of them.
The right index finger is red. The left ring finger is yellow. The thumb is green. The palm is covered in blue spots. There are orange stripes between the fingers. Even the nails are different: one is blue, one is pink, one is orange.
Vlad was amazed.
"Dad, look! My hands are colored!"
Dad smiled.
"Go wash up, artist. Colors are for paper, not the table or clothes.".
— Now!
Vlad ran into the bathroom. He turned on the warm water. He reached for the soap — pink, round, with the scent of strawberries. But… suddenly he stopped.
He looked at his hands.
Thoughts swirled in his head, like paint mixing in water.
«"If I shake hands with my friend now, he'll turn a little colorful too," Vlad thought. "And if I hug my mother, there'll be marks on her blouse. And if..."»
He thought deeper.
«"And if I do—like when I shake hands with a friend—does it leave traces of my mood on it?"»
This question seemed strange and important to him.
He stuck his head out of the bathroom.
“Mom!” he called.
Mom came. She looked.
"What are you doing, son? Haven't you washed up yet?"
"Mom. I think so.".
She came in and knelt down next to him.
— About what?
— Well, look. My hands are covered in paint. If I hug you now, it will transfer to you, right? And that will be a trace of my drawing. And if I shake hands with my friends, will they also have traces of my mood on them? Not from the paint. But from who I am — good or bad?
Mom didn't answer for a long time. She looked at her son—at his red-and-blue hands, his serious face, his slightly disheveled hair.
Then she said:
"A very wise question, son. What do you think?"
Vlad thought for a moment. He wrinkled his forehead. He rubbed his eyebrow with his left blue palm and accidentally left a blue mark there.
"Well..." he said slowly. "If I'm angry, I probably convey anger. Or annoyance. Or resentment. If I'm kind, I convey kindness. Right?"
Mom nodded.
— Yes. Only the paint from the hands is quickly erased. Wash with soap and it's clean. And feelings remain in the heart for a long time. Sometimes for a very long time. For a lifetime.
Vlad looked at his hands. At the dragon on the living room floor. At his mother. He was silent for a long time.
"Then we must be careful," he said finally. "What traces to leave.".
— Exactly, my dear.
Mom got up. She turned the water on harder, gave him soap. Vlad washed himself for a long time — slowly, carefully. He rubbed his hands, fingers, nails. Red washed away with pink. Blue with azure. Green with May. All the colors flowed down the drain in a small rainbow.
When he dried his hands with the towel, they were clean. Completely clean. Only a little pink from the heat.
But a decision remained in his soul.
From now on, he decided, he would leave only beautiful colors on the hearts of his friends.
Red — for warmth. For hugs. For "I love you.".
Blue - for peace. For "look, what a beautiful sky." For "I'm with you.".
Yellow - for laughter. For jokes. For "let's make up a funny game.".
Green - for hope. For "you will succeed." For "I believe in you.".
Vlad returned to the living room. The dragon was lying on the floor - huge, crooked-winged, beautiful. Vlad gave it a name. He called it Veselik. Because he wanted everyone who looked at the dragon to smile too.
Many years from now, when Vlad grows up and his friends say, "He makes us happier," this will be his most beautiful painting. The one you can't paint with paints. Only with your heart.
✨ Paint from hands is erased quickly, but feelings remain in the heart for a long time ✨