|Hard Shoes to Fill|
A few weeks ago, my brothers and I packed up Dad's bedroom. In the back of his closet was a pair of reddish brown wingtips, worn at the heel. I brought them home and did this painting of them. He is here, but he's not. So intimate and personal. An emptiness remains.
Dad died on Thanksgiving Day. After leaving the hospital, my brothers and family came here for dinner. I invited my older brother to sit in Dad's place at the head of the table, but he just covered his face with his hands and refused.