And you would sit on the old bus seat we found on the corner near Quick N Easy, a stream of sunlight on one side of your face like a portrait. Sit and draw for hours in the nook of the apartment, and I would read, do the dishes and laundry, and take care of our baby. When I looked again, the sun was on your lap, your head still bowed as if in prayer.
I was outside this drawing. Outside in the garden, planting tomatoes and green beans, teaching our child about dirt and clouds and water. I remember her deep laugh like an old man when a squirrel ran right to her feet, perched on its back legs, and stared at her as if she were the most astonishing thing. Maybe she was a sound for you, maybe not even that.
Could we have done better? Could you have found me? Dare I say there were signs it was possible. In the glow of the beginning, you drew me, so many drawings staring straight at me, every contour of my face, the shape of my cheekbone, my ear, the little gap between my front teeth. I’d never been looked at so intensely, so carefully. But I wonder now did you ever really see me?
