The day she tried to paint him was the day she realized he was too far away. Away from her like the sea was. The sea where they danced under the moonlight with stars lighting their paths. She remembered his hands. Strong hands. She remembered how long she stayed in his arms. But still lost in memory she realised that it was not the right canvas. The texture was not his skin nor the colour his complexion. His skin and hers did not have a beginning on an end. They were one and inseparable. In the moment she examined her skin with the paintbrush in her hands.
The paintbrush was not the bristle to stroke the canvas to show his contours. It was different this time cause he was not there. Only a photograph on a broken frame. Broken from the night they fought. Something about no time spent nor presents sent to their only child. He was not much of a father to him. He just existed and that bothered her. All of this came crashing down at the sight of the photograph. It was his and yes it inspired the painting. But she could not touch him or see him.
So it was hard to start. Especially at the part where he could not smell his scent no more. Even though she said godbye though. To him laying on a hospital bed. Brain dead and heavily breathing. He was still alive to her.