You showed up on my blue canvas, a portrait I patted myself on the shoulder for. I’m so very sorry, my dear friend. It is too late now. I can take nothing back, not one thing.

You had your daily runs, walks and a healthy appetite. There weren’t any outward signs,
but I wasn’t paying close enough attention. You were saying you were sick. I didn’t hear your silent words. I wasn’t listening. For two months, I think it was two months, I can’t remember exactly—I was buried in my meaningful art. You kept hanging around my studio. You hadn’t ever done that before. Well, you had, but not to stay. You’d give a gentle hello then return to your usual places, ones of comfort, like the sofa by the piano. We called it your bed not our couch. Actually, it was a love seat. The couch knew more than I. It knew how to comfort and bear the additional weight of the masses spreading inside…

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