Someone hung a drawing, on a wall, in a room, in the building across the street. On the twenty-third floor, at eye level. The eye of a three-year-old.

Or a seagull, albatross, the clouds when they carry snow. Or mine, across the street, looking out from my window.

Across the street, on a wall in a large, white hospital room, hangs a drawing that was not there yesterday. A big, bright, colourful rainbow.

The biggest, brightest, only rainbow in the world and history to have twelve colours; it would have had more had the box contained more crayons. A rainbow of lilac, pink, apple green, two yellows: honey and sun, no black or brown, two blues: one of dusk and one of midsummer, midday sky. Two shades of red: strawberry, cherry.  Orange, a clear favourite; it was the widest of the rainbow’s bands. Indigo, violet.

No signature. The artist opted for anonymity. No background or frame. The artist prefers simplicity. The artist is noticeably absent, despite clear signs they are near: the box of crayons, opened, sheets of paper – one is a work in progress -, a teddy bear on the bed guarding a bag of – also – gummy bears. The bag is open. The gummies are in many colours; perhaps they are the artist’s muse. Perhaps, at night, the teddy guards the artist too.

It must get quite dark at night in that room in the building across the street. The screens keep flashing, but the beeps and lines and tubes are not friendly. The bed is too high above the floor, which must smell sterilized and not at all like the plush creamy elephant carpet at home. That smells of almond milk: lotion the artist got in trouble for spilling. A forgivable crime, fast forgiven. Best of all, the smell stayed.

The bedroom at home smells of almond milk. The artist’s hair: camomile. Or, it used to. It will again, the artist has been promised. Hair grows back and minds cannot be trapped by hospital rooms, however high up and large and white. Minds can fly. Rooms are just rooms.

Like Van Gogh, who was sick too but painted yellow flowers, fields, bedrooms – his favourite colour must have been yellow -, the artist would draw rainbows. Rainbows and rainbows, in every colour and colour combination, except black and brown, until the day he woke up and felt better. He would make drawings and hang them on the wall for an audience of birds, clouds, stars.  And me, who happened to look over from the building across.

And saw a drawing that was not a drawing, but a gate into a fantastic world in which twelve-colour rainbows exist. A world in which tomorrow, who knows, I may see a flying cat, talking moon, the Eiffel Tower carried away by hundreds of red balloons, a portrait of the artist – with hair – wearing a musketeer cape, or wielding a bow and arrow, or piloting a plane.

Or, simply, against a white background and with no frame: teddy bears, gummy bears, polar bears, in every colour and colour combination in the box. Possibilities. I cannot wait. From a room across the street from the children’s hospital, I will be hoping, cheering, applauding.