The sketches she made
on the quad
were never of me
because I was always behind her,
watching what she did
as she watched all of them.

Her sense of composition was flawed
but her sense of compassion
was sound
as she painted picture after portrait
of fragile souls.

She captured something special
secret, sublime
in her unsuspecting subjects,
many of whom she knew
and some whom she knew
better than she knew.

Does that make sense?
It doesn’t matter.
My words mean nothing
before the memory of her illustrations
– three of which I was able to steal
but none of which survived
to this day.