As I paint him he appears and then disappears. For a moment I am struck by the recognition of creating the face I have seen my entire life and then it is gone again. Like a dance, I patiently paint the steps until it is right, it has to be right, perfectly so. This is the legacy I can leave, a catching of one singular moment of his life. It was the day I realized he was leaving me forever, but then he is here behind me, admiring the work. I have seen this painting for ages, lifetimes , and I am still unsure of what he gazes at. What does he see that makes just a hint of a smile? This is as much from memory as life, from all the times before he died that I sketched him. I paint his skin pink and flush with life, not yellow, not sick. He is well here although he is softly dying, like a whisper we could not hear. Even now I ache for missing him, his protection, his love for me that never ended, even now. He will attend his show, here in this painting I will give him a voice there. I am an artist's daughter. Someone helped me get here today, someone I love. Thank you...for reminding me.