She said, Luke you are so strong like cold wind blowing me now. While I was in the next room. No, she didn't say it. Oh, that's right, she wrote it. On the back of a note sent by my father. I didn't discover it until she was gone and it was spoiled instead of sweet. Eleven words painted onto a legal pad page. Diagonal. Left of center. Spoiled. Luke you are so strong like cold wind blowing me now. I can still see those red sweatpants and green flip-flops if I close my eyes. They unlock my door and invite themselves in and dance beside my bed while I sleep. They carry tiny brushes and tubes of color. They laugh at me as they bring you to life in strokes of gray and auburn and turquoise (How do they always get your smile so right?). I should know better by now than to reach for you. The paint drips when I get too close and I wake up clawing at the puddles left behind. I saw you on the street last Wednesday. You were looking at the records in the window and you didn't see me because when I passed you I saw that you didn't have your eyes. Sometimes when I look at you in the dark on the canvas, after the red and green visitors have filled you in, I want to ask you. Was it cold wind blowing you or were you already running?