He notices when I’m quiet.
For decades, Henry had only one rule:
“Don’t go into my garage.”
The garage was his space – late-night jazz music, the smell of paint thinner, and sometimes the door was locked.
I respected him.
After sixty years, you learn that everyone needs their own corner.
But lately, something seemed different.
He watched with concern, not love.
One afternoon he forgot his gloves.
I thought they were in the garage and I wanted to take them to him.
The door was ajar.
Dust danced in the light.
Inside, every wall was covered with portraits of a woman – laughing, crying, sleeping, growing old.
There were dates in the corners.
Some in the future.
I took one off the wall.
“Who is he?”
Henry was standing behind me.
“I told you not to come in.”
“Who is this woman?”
He swallowed hard.
“I paint to keep up with the times.”
I went out trembling.
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