He spots the paints when I decide it’s time to go through your things. I tell him not now. Not yet. He sees red, kicking my coffee everywhere. I kneel, surveying the tan Arabica sinking into the powder blue rug. We both cry. I reach out and he cuddles me.
I try and remember where the paintbrushes are.
I watch him, as I watched you; the frantic strokes causing paint to splash his hair and face. He is contented. Swirling my brush into his multicolour mix, I draw a smiley face. He adds purple glasses. He never forgot you.