Urgently, he brought his paintbrush to the canvas, as if he needed to tell her something before the words evaporated from his mind. I watched him from the doorway, leaning on the left side, my fingers gripping its chipping white paint for support. My eyes trailed up his rigid spine before hopping to his nimble fingers. Not once did he ever turn towards me or verbally acknowledge my presence; all he did was paint, filling the room with the sound of his brush dragging across the canvas. No other noise, not even his breathing, came from his corner of the room.

I am ashamed of how I could not bring myself to speak. My throat felt paralyzed, but please understand that I yearned to reach him.

“How can you paint at a time like this?” I wanted to ask, genuinely curious. “Your wife is dead. Do you not wish to say…”

I cannot name what I wanted him to say. What I understand now though, as I sit on the floor passing through the doorway, waiting for him, and he continues to paint with a shaking hand, is that he is saying everything without a word.