He thought of his departed wife while painting me—her chestnut eyes, her auburn locks, her angular cheeks. I got jealous sometimes, but the feeling would fade away. Just as his health faded. He became gaunt, like a skeleton. Until he was gone.

And someone removed me from the easel.

Joyce Jacobo is a freelance writer with an MA in Literature & Writing Studies. Her pieces have found homes in publications such as ScribesMICROFiction, Horror Tree, and the San Diego Poetry Annual.