The Paintbrush from the Flea Market

On Sunday, Willa bought an old paintbrush. She found it at the flea market. It cost two coins. The handle was dark wood. The hairs were soft and blue at the tips. The woman at the stall said only one thing. "It likes to paint what is true."

Willa did not understand. But the brush felt good in her hand. So she bought it.

On Wednesday, she went to her painting class. It was in the park. The teacher put a bowl of apples on a table. Everyone sat on the grass with paper and paint.

Willa dipped the new brush in water. She drew a gray cloud at the top. It was a small cloud. She made it softer with one stroke.

Then something touched her hand. It was cold and wet. She looked at the paper. A small drop of water sat on the cloud. She looked up at the sky. It was clear and blue.

"That is strange," she said to herself.

She put the brush in the yellow paint. She made a sun. The paper grew warm under her hand. It felt like a cup of tea. She smiled.

"What a nice sun," said the girl next to her. The girl's name was Nora. "Mine looks like a lemon."

Willa wanted to say, "Mine is a magic sun." But she kept quiet.

Next, she painted a small blue bird on a branch. She finished the last feather. Then she heard a sound. It was very quiet. It was just one note. Tweet.

Willa looked around. No one else heard it. The teacher walked past and looked at the apples. The other students bent over their papers.

Willa laughed softly. The old woman was right. The brush painted what was true. Or maybe it made true what she painted. She did not know. She only knew she loved it.

She painted a tiny house. A light came on in its window.

After half an hour, Nora called out, "Oh no!" Her painting was wet. Her red apple ran down the paper in long lines. A cloud sat over the picture, and it rained. Willa saw her own gray cloud on Nora's paper. The brush was still in her hand.

"I am so sorry," Willa said. "My brush did that."

"Your brush?" Nora asked. "Don't be silly. The paper is just wet."

Willa did not argue. She painted a bright sun on her own paper. Then she held the brush over Nora's picture. A warm light fell on it. Slowly, the paper dried. The red apple stopped running. Nora's mouth fell open.

"How did you do that?" she said.

"I think it is a good brush," said Willa.

At the end, the teacher walked around the circle. She stopped at Willa's painting. It showed the sun and the cloud. It showed the bird and the house. The teacher looked at it for a long time.

"This is very alive," she said quietly.

Willa dipped the brush in brown paint one more time. She painted a small cup of tea. The smell of mint filled the air. She lifted the paper. She slid it across the grass to her teacher.

The teacher picked up the cup. She smiled and took a sip.