“I can't see the brushstrokes,” Anna said.

She was in first grade, and she stood on a chair, considering the art on our wall like a patron at the museum. It was Grant Wood's Young Corn, a print we purchased before she was born because it reminded us of our Midwestern roots. Anna always liked it before, but on this day she studied it with a critical eye. She had seen his original works that morning, on display at the Des Moines Art Center. American Gothic. The Birthplace of Herbert Hoover. Perhaps she was still lost in Grant Wood's rolling landscapes.

“I want to see the brushstrokes,” she said again. “Where are the brushstrokes?”

I explained to her about prints and copies and cost, but it didn't matter. She wanted to see the oil where it had dried, history in the present, that brushstroke of time.

This fall, we added a new painting to our walls, one with real brushstrokes. We bought it from Jennifer Gavin, a local artist, whose work was on display at the first annual Art in the Barn fundraiser for our library. I was drawn to it across the crowded room, those bare feet stretching for the sky.

“Does it have a title?” I asked.

“Push Me Higher,” she said, “because Dad would always come home from working in the fields and my sister and I would take turns, begging him to push us higher. And he always would, no matter how tired he was.”

A tribute to fathers, I thought, remembering my own.

She sold us the painting for a kind price and asked me my dad's name before signing the back.

Push me higher no matter how tired . . . in loving memory of Ed Brooks

Now I stand and stare at this picture, the echo of Anna's question in my mind. I think of the motion of the swing, like the motion of the paintbrush, sweeping back and forth, keeping time. I'm with Anna. I don't want to miss the brushstrokes. In 2012, on the canvas of life, I want to see every brushstroke.