3/21/2026 (c)
Every summer, Grandma opens the closet
under the stairwell—
pulls out paintings she’d completed that year.
Daddy grabs a beer—
wanders off, the screen door banging
like a mini tantrum.
Momma casts a withering glare
toward the void where Daddy was.
Their wedding gift painting—
hung it where the open front door
could obscure it.
When she lived with us,
instead of contributing to expenses
her savings paid for
painting courses at the community center.
Sometimes she practiced with crayons
or pastel sticks at the kitchen table.
Profiles—
One of my brother,
one of my sister.
None of me.
“I give up. I can’t capture you.”
I stood there,
obscured
even without a door.
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