The Springy Brush

A wide wooden paintbrush was resting across a ceramic jar on the low table. I paused a short distance away... watching the fine, cream-colored bristles fan out in the warm afternoon stillness. Did it feel a little ticklish waiting there? Very slowly, I waddled forward and reached out with both stubby arms. I pressed gently into the soft hairs. They bent with a quiet, springy give... and gently swept back when I leaned my plush cheek against them. Sharing a moment with such a soft, polite little broom feels remarkably soothing, doesn't it?