the following day

i spent my time painting my art practical

focussing on the shading of my mother’s dark hair

that floated around the page.

late afternoon Otousan knocked on my door

and entered.

“i was wondering-”

      eyes stared
      words caught on his tongue
      body frozen.

“-your - your mother...”

i noticed my mistake too late.

in the months following Okaasan’s death

he had thrown away all of our photos

leaving nothing but old picture frames scattered around the house

empty and

lifeless.

looking at my painting now-

i immediately apologised

but he just stood still

stricken at the image in front of him.

and then he turned slowly to me

and sighed.

“i wanted to ask if we could go out for dinner tonight.”

his recovery puzzled me

but i nodded nevertheless.

he placed a hand on the doorknob

“why don’t you invite Midori?”

“no!” i blurted loudly

and when he frowned i added, “just us.”

then he nodded, gave a ghost of a smile

and left the room.