Now You Look

A man
stood a long time
before my painting.

I
was looking at his back.

He said,

“It makes me think
of my father.”

I
looked at the painting.

The person I had painted
was not his father.

“No.”

The word
rose to my lips.

I did not say it.

Instead I asked,

“What about him
is like your father?”

He said,
looking at the painting,

“The way he sits
turned away.”

He laughed briefly.

“When I came home
he was always sitting like that.”

A little later
his voice dropped.

“When I called him,
he would turn around.”

The person in the painting
showed his back.

The face
could not be seen.

He and I

were looking at the same painting.

He asked,

“May I stay
a little longer?”

“Please.”

At one side of the room
there was a chair.

He
went to it.

Slowly
he sat down.

I
stepped aside.

And
quietly left the room.

As I went to close the door,
from inside
came a small voice.

“Father.”

I
stood
with my hand on the door handle.

From inside
no other sound came.

So the door
would make no sound,
I held the handle
all the way.