Your palette sits where you kept it, paint drying in its box like the tears on my tender cheeks. Some of the colours, like my emotions, are all mixed up.
‘Never too old to learn something new!’ you had said brightly, waving the set. An eightieth birthday present. That was a week before you left, sleeping in your bed.
I mentally paint your portrait: your smile, your dimples, your kind brown eyes. All of you. It hurts but I do it. I sketch every detail as I carefully pick up the art supplies and tuck them into my bag.
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