The mandala, the one I drew for him, the one I thought had made him uncomfortable, stares back at me. And it’s colored. He worked on it. At home. Or at the clinic. I don’t know. Does it matter? “You colored it?” It’s beautiful, in dark tones of blue and purple. He did a meticulous job, I notice, which I find endearing for some reason. “I did.” When I muster the courage to look at him, his eyes are already on me. “It was too beautiful not to.”
