Picasso, like the artist

My sister’s house was the exact opposite of the tranquil silence of my apartment. I get sensory overload when I sometimes forget to tune out the sounds of kitchen appliances, the same Disney movie being played for the sixth time that day, and her two, extremely energetic, four year old twins. I fancied myself the “cool uncle.” When I came over, all they wanted to do was talk to me and show me their latest made up adventure they would reenact in the backyard. My sister saw how much they loved spending time with me, and how much I loved spending time with them.  “When do you plan on getting a few of your own?” She asked, already knowing my answer.  A memory comes with this baggage of not feeling up to the task of being a father. It was when my sister’s boys had just turned two years old. They were barely coming into their personality, the youngest one had trouble talking for quite some time, and I couldn’t always understand him. While the oldest was preoccupied with a handful of...