I can still remember the outline your legs make. The way the light shines between them when you're standing tall. I can still remember the way your hair fell on your shoulders, curling up at the ends. I can remember the way you smell when I tucked my nose right behind your ears. The sweet spot. I remember the outline our hands made when we laced them together. You always had to change your grip, forgetting you were taller. Your shoulders are broad, yet dainty. Strong.
I've heard your outline looks different now. I heard you stand a little taller. I heard you are a little more quiet. Meanwhile, I paint you in colors and lines on a canvas and easel set up in the back of my mind. I think I'm always painting, even when I don't know it. I know this studio has dozens of paintings and sketches of your shoulders, hips, legs, eyes and hair.
It's easy to forget people who have died and gone. It's easy to start to forget the details of their face and their outline. It's difficult to mourn for someone who is still here, still full of energy, still stunning. So, I keep taking strokes. I keep tracing your outline for fear one day you may truly not be here.