Her red boots beneath his elbow.
But when she picked up the pencil, his face became unfamiliar.
Where should she begin?
The line of his cheek?
The crease beside his mouth?
His eyes, narrowed against the sunlight?
She drew a faint oval.
Then rubbed it away.
She tried again.
By the third attempt, the paper had begun to roughen.
Anna put the pencil down.
From the sitting room came the sound of her father moving his cup on the small table.
She listened.
Then she rose, checked that he could reach it comfortably, and returned to the kitchen.
The blank face waited.
She closed the sketchbook.
On Wednesday, Ruth found her quieter than usual.
They sat at their familiar café table, with tea between them and a slice of cake neither had yet touched.
“How’s the course?”
“Good.”
Ruth waited.
Anna turned her spoon over.
“We’re supposed to bring a photograph this week.”
“Have you chosen one?”
“My father.”
“That sounds lovely.”
Anna looked toward the window.
“I can’t draw him.”
Ruth glanced at her.

“Is it a difficult photograph?”
“No.”
“Then what happens when you try?”
Anna rested the spoon on the saucer.
“I keep getting his face wrong.”
“Faces are difficult.”
“It’s more than that.”
She searched for the words.
“In the photograph, he’s laughing. When I look at him now, he’s often tired. Or worried. And when I try to draw the photograph, I feel as though I’m choosing which one counts.”
Ruth remained quiet.
Anna pressed her fingers together.
“I don’t want to turn him into someone who only exists in an old picture.”
“Does drawing that morning have to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Ruth took a sip of tea.
“I have a photograph of my husband on the beach. He looks ridiculous. His trousers are rolled up, and he’s holding both shoes as though someone might steal them.”
Anna smiled faintly.
“I like that photograph,” Ruth continued. “I also remember him complaining about the parking meter ten minutes later.”
“Was he always complaining about parking?”
“Frequently.”
They both smiled.
Ruth looked down at her cup.
“The picture holds one moment. I bring the rest when I look at it.”
Anna considered that.
Outside, a delivery driver struggled with a folded trolley.
A woman held the shop door open for him.
Life kept moving past the window.
“I’m frightened I’ll forget the sound of his laugh,” Anna said.
Ruth’s expression softened.
Anna had not intended to say it.
Now that she had, she could not take it back.
“I remember that he laughed,” she continued. “I remember the things that made him laugh. But sometimes, when I try to hear it properly, I can’t.”
Ruth reached across the table and rested her hand beside Anna’s.
They sat that way until Anna could lift her cup again.
On Saturday, Anna arrived at the community centre five minutes early.
Michael had come on time.
There had been no dramatic difficulty at the door.
Still, her shoulders remained tight as she unpacked.
Beth glanced at the photograph.

“Your dad?”
“Yes.”
“He looks happy.”
Anna looked down.
“He was.”
Caroline asked everyone to spend the first few minutes simply looking.
“Before you draw,” she said, “notice what made you choose the photograph.”
Anna stared at her father’s face.
The answer should have been easy.
Because she loved him.
Because she missed him.
Because she wanted to preserve something.
But those answers felt too large to put on the page.
Caroline came beside her.
“How did your practice go?”
“Badly.”
“What was difficult?”
“His face.”
Caroline pulled up a chair.
“May I look?”
Anna opened the sketchbook.
Three attempts.
Three faint faces, each partly erased.
Caroline studied them without speaking.
Then she pointed to the hand holding the hose.
“Have you tried starting here?”
“His hand?”
“You’ve looked carefully at it.”
Anna glanced at the photograph.
She knew that hand.
The broad thumb.
The uneven knuckle.
The way he held something firmly without appearing to squeeze.
She had watched those hands repair drawers, peel oranges, straighten a crooked picture.
Now she helped one of them settle comfortably on a blanket.

“I suppose I have.”
“Start where you can see clearly.”
Caroline stood.
Anna drew the hose first.
Then the curve of his fingers around it.
A wrist.
The rolled sleeve.
She worked slowly.
When she reached his face, she stopped again.
Caroline returned a few minutes later.
“You don’t have to finish today.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Anna looked up.
Caroline’s voice was gentle.
Anna glanced at the clock.
For years, every unfinished task had meant something waiting for her later.
Something likely to become harder if she postponed it.
A drawing was different.
She could leave a face unfinished without failing anyone.
She lowered her pencil.
Then she noticed something in the photograph she had overlooked.
Her father was leaning slightly toward the little girl beside him.
Not much.
Only enough to make room for her in the picture.
Anna drew the angle of his shoulder.
Beth looked over.
“You’ve got something there.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. The way he’s standing.”
Anna looked at the page.
It did not resemble him perfectly.
But it resembled something she remembered.
For the first time, she wanted to continue instead of erase.
At the end of class, Caroline gathered everyone near the front.
“In four weeks, we’ll put together a small display in the entrance hall. No pressure. One piece from anyone who would like to contribute.”
Anna immediately looked down.
Beth nudged her lightly.
“Our pears could make an appearance.”
“Yours is a potato.”
“An award-winning potato.”
Anna laughed.
Then Caroline added, “You can show an unfinished study, too. Sometimes those are the most interesting.”
On the drive home, Anna thought about the entrance hall.
People passing.
Stopping.
Looking.
She had returned to drawing because it gave her a little space to herself.
She had not considered letting anyone else into that space.
At home, Michael was making tea.
“How did it go?”
She took out the sketchbook.
He studied the drawing.
For once, he made no joke.
Anna watched his face.
“What?”
He pointed to the shoulder.
“That’s him.”
“It’s barely started.”
“I know.”
His eyes moved to the hand.
“He used to hold the steering wheel like that. With his thumb along the inside.”
Anna looked.
He was right.
She had drawn something Michael remembered, too.
She sat down.
“They’re having a little display.”
“Are you putting this in?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Michael nodded.
He left the question alone.
Later, Anna took the sketchbook into the sitting room.
Her father looked at the page.
She held it steady.
“I’m drawing that morning in the garden.”
His gaze moved over the hand, the sleeve, the unfinished face.
Then his finger touched the lower corner.
The small red boots.
Anna looked down.
“That’s me.”
He kept his finger there.
She waited without asking him to explain.
After a moment, he looked toward her feet.
Her shoes were gray.
Ordinary.
Damp at the edges from the car park.
Anna smiled through the sudden pressure in her throat.
“I don’t have those boots anymore.”
Her father settled back.
She stayed beside him with the sketchbook across her knees.
That evening, she began drawing again.
She added the garden wall.
The dark patch on his shirt.
A little space beneath his elbow.
When she finally put down the pencil, her phone lit up.
A message from Michael.
Can we talk tomorrow? I need to tell you something about the years before you came home.
Anna read it twice.
Then she looked toward the sitting room.
For the first time since finding the letter, she wondered what her brother had been carrying without telling her.