OPEN-ENDED

She never showed the sketches
she made of me.
“They’re private,” she said.
“They’re me,” I replied
but that didn’t get me anywhere.
She just drew me
day after day
after inviting me up
initially
to see her “etchings.”

I suffered in silence
suspecting I’d uncover her work
as she had uncovered me
eventually.

And it was so.
It took time
but I finally viewed
at her opening
her work
and me
through her eyes.

The man she portrayed
was tortured and worn
worried and warped.
He was a small man
yet astoundingly fat.
I didn’t like his ugliness
but couldn’t deny how beautifully composed
he was.

It was with great sadness
I saw
what she saw in me
and with clear eyes
that I realized
why it was only
at that instant
that I was allowed
to witness for myself.