Many years ago, I painted something for a boyfriend.
A tree frog on a branch.
Vivid, it popped off the canvas, lifelike.
Nearly the instant I completed it, I gave it to him. Not long after, we parted ways. Almost immediately, I wanted that painting back.
That was a piece of myself.
I’ve carried that anger around for almost 20 years. Just recently, I contacted him, in friendship. I asked for the painting back. You know what?
He sent it.
Professionally wrapped, expensively sent. Clearly, it had been well cared for. I had asked him to mark it in some way, to prove his ownership of it. He neglected to, but I shall do it for him. I have no compunction about messing it up. And I will always know the truth.
And I will love that he returned that piece of myself, intact, pristine but for the passage of time.