Brother

14

(In memory to my brother, 2013) The house stood at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, framed by bare trees and the faint glow of holiday lights from the neighbors. You parked the car and stepped out into the brisk December air, following your lead as you walked up the path. “Ready?” you asked me, pausing at the door. I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure I was. You had told me stories about your younger brother over the years—his humor, his love of basketball and music, his talent for art. I knew bits and pieces about his battle with brain cancer and the three years he had spent confined to this house, grappling with blindness, memory loss, and the loss of his independence. But I didn’t really know him. Not the way you and your parents did. Still, I wanted to. The door opened before you could knock, your mother greeting you with a warm smile. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, pulling you into a hug before turning to me. “And this must be your friend!” She welcomed me inside, and I stepped into the warmth of the house. It was cozy, lived-in, the kind of place where every corner held a memory. Your father appeared from the kitchen, nodding in quiet acknowledgment before offering a firm handshake. After a few minutes of small talk, your mother gestured toward the living room. “You’ve never seen his portrait, have you?” “No,” I said, glancing at you. “Not in person.” “Come on,” you said, leading me into the room. And there it was. “He painted it in college,” you said, your voice soft. “Before he got sick. It’s one of the last things he finished.” The self-portrait hung on the far wall, a striking centerpiece that seemed to draw the entire room toward it. It was vibrant and alive, the kind of work that stopped you in your tracks. As I stood there, looking at the portrait, I felt like I could see him. Not just in the art piece, but in your words, in the love that filled the room.

Angel

9

(Dedicated to a friend) A worn, leather-bound sketchbook holds within its pages a poignant collection of drawings, each one telling a story of ethereal beauty and quiet strength. The sketches depict a female angel—her elegance, her regality, each line and curve imbued with a divine essence. She is not merely a figure of art; she is a celestial guardian, a silent sentinel watching over a grieving couple, offering them comfort and peace in the darkest hours of their sorrow. Her presence, while graceful and serene, is not born from a tale of joy, but of profound loss. This angel, though never given the chance to live in the world she watches over, embodies the pain of a stillborn child—a life never allowed to bloom. Her spirit, though cut short in the realm of the living, transcends mortality. In her transformation into this ethereal protector, she becomes a symbol of healing and solace, a reminder that even in the face of unimaginable grief, love endures. Each page of the sketchbook reflects the artist’s emotional journey through this sorrow, offering a glimpse into the painful process of coming to terms with loss. As the artist’s hand moves across the pages, they grapple with the complexities of their heartache and the slow, fragile path toward healing. The angel’s form, drawn over and over, becomes a visual testament to the power of love—a love that remains, unshaken by the cruel hand of tragedy. But in these drawings, there is also a message of hope. The angel, though she grieves alongside the couple she protects, also stands as a beacon of memory and love. Her presence speaks of a profound truth: though life may be fleeting and often unfair, love—pure, deep love—transcends even death itself. The sketches, each line and shadow, are a quiet yet powerful reminder that in times of sorrow, beauty, compassion, and the enduring human spirit can offer solace. The angel, in all her silent grace, whispers that even in grief, there is hope.

Artist and Muse

7

(Tribute to Anubis) A sketchbook filled with memories of her—the unattainable woman. The one who seemed to exist on a different plane, far out of my reach. She was everything I wasn’t, and we had nothing in common, yet I was drawn to her in a way I couldn’t explain. It was a one-sided attraction, the kind people refer to as a crush or fleeting puppy love. But to me, it was deeper. It was real. I never worked up the courage to tell her how I felt. Instead, I lived in the safety of my imagination, where I could carry her books down a sunlit hallway or hear her laugh at some clever joke I never actually told. I wrote her name again and again, just to see it beside mine, a pairing that felt like a secret wish. I even scribbled love notes—always unsigned, always anonymous—hoping they might make her smile, even if she never knew they came from me. Years have passed since I last saw her. Time has softened the sharp edges of those feelings, but it hasn’t erased them. Every now and then, she drifts into my thoughts, and for a fleeting moment, I’m that dreamer again, sketching the impossible. She became the spark that fueled my imagination. Her likeness filled my art portfolio, paving the way for my degree in fine arts. The daydreams of our imaginary dates shaped me into a romantic, giving me the courage to ask out a real girl—the one who would become my wife. When the time came, it was those same dreams that helped me create the perfect proposal. In so many ways, I owe her everything. She made me strive to be better, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. -Robin Griffith, aka Anonymous