I OWE MY DAD

Mine, the gesture says. It’s the same thing I’m saying with the custom jewelry in her ears.

But it’s as much a fantasy as the ring on her finger.

“Tell me about your favorite painting here,” I say, wanting to hear her talk.

“My favorite? It’s this one.” She nods to a small pale-yellow square. At first that’s all I can see, but the longer I look at it, the more different shades I see. The yellow is so pale in some places, it’s almost white. In other places it’s rich and warm like honey. The diagonal slants of yellow fall across a deep, dark green background. Or maybe black? The paint on the dark green part is layered so thick, it’s like I want to reach out and touch it.

“What’s it about?” I ask.

She leans back into me. “Check the title.”

I do. “Arden. What’s that mean?”

“It’s the forest in a Shakespeare play.”

I look at the abstract painting again. Now I can see it, the way the yellow looks like sunlight, slanting through a deep, dark, old forest.

Nicole’s voice is soft and content. “I