Drawing Series Here

"There's no door there, Elias," she said softly, gesturing to the blank plaster wall.

Absence, Day 2.

She was older, of course. They both were. But the light on her face was the same. He saw it now with a clarity he had been missing for years. The soft shadow under her lower lip. The way the crow's feet at her eyes were not flaws, but records of every smile she'd ever given him. drawing series

The series ended on Day 63. Not because he ran out of things to draw, but because he drew something he could not explain. He was in the living room, trying to capture the silence. He drew the ticking of the grandfather clock. He drew the creak of the house settling. He drew the sound of his own breathing.

It was the first day of the rest of his work. "There's no door there, Elias," she said softly,

Then, on a Tuesday in late October, Mira left.

He drew the coffee maker, unused. He drew the half-empty jar of her favorite marionberry jam, pushed to the back of the fridge. He drew the dust motes dancing in the shaft of afternoon light that used to catch the auburn in her hair. They both were

The drive was three hours. He didn't listen to music or the radio. He just drove, the image of the drawn door burning behind his eyes.