Where the Paint Still Dries
At times
it feels as if you’re still holding me
the way you did when I was born—
nestled between strong arms,
cooing beneath your solemn embrace.
Skin to skin,
we simply existed.
You’d wash my hair,
molding damp strands into abstract shapes
like I was your masterpiece,
and then you’d look at me
like I was the most beautiful thing
to ever exist.
At dawn, you’d read to me before I slept,
your voice carrying the weight
of every syllable, every meaning,
like language itself had found a home
in your mouth.
You baked me a cake on my birthday—
sifting flour through your fingers,
whipping buttercream into soft peaks,
letting me lick the spatula
when it was done.
It tasted so sweet.
I’d sit in the theatre sometimes,
a place where you hung your passion
like stage lights above a darkened room.
You’d be bent over a set design,
painting away—
each brushstroke deliberate,
each color a small confession
of who you were.
And I watched you
turn blank wood into worlds.
But then
you got sick.
The kind of suddenness
that knocks the breath
out of a room.
One day you were steady hands
and paint-stained fingers,
the next
your body was betraying you
in ways I couldn’t understand.
Kidneys failing—
such a quiet phrase
for something so violent.
I always believed religion
was a commodity—
something bought, sold, traded
between desperate hands.
Until I found my own hands folded.
Praying
to a God I wasn’t even sure
how to address.
Praying
to a God I thought
might be punishing me.
I asked for forgiveness.
I asked for protection.
I asked for strength.
Memories of you
feel like Polaroids now—
captured in black and white,
developing slowly
in the dark.
And I keep shaking the photograph
like maybe
if I wait long enough
the colors will come back.
But the truth is
I’m terrified
of the day
the image fades completely.
Because I still need you here—
steady hands,
paint-stained fingers,
building worlds
in a life that suddenly
feels like it’s falling apart.
