Cleo McDougal Regrets Nothing

by Allison Winn Scotch

Cleo thought of her dad, how he’d tell her to jab left if she couldn’t jab right. To dance, to move, to win.

People should be allowed their secrets. People should be allowed their scars.

Her mother’s artworks weren’t glorious masterpieces. Cleo didn’t need to study art history to know that. But they were masterpieces to her mom—and to her father too—and Cleo sank to the dirty floor of her storage space and considered that this had been enough for both of them. To make a little art, to paint a landscape that only your brain and imagination could, and to share it with someone you loved.