Name Not Taken

by Madeleine Henry

My studio is bright enough now with only natural light. The windows illuminate everything on my easel, down to the canvas weave. When the sun crosses onto the West Side, I turn on a tripod lamp near my piece. When the sun starts to drop, I turn on another. Keeping the light perfect takes constant adjustment. When I’m doing it right, every hour feels like ten in the morning. Maybe that’s why I lose track of time in here. The light barely wavers all day long.

I mix a maraschino red so lush I can almost taste it. I mix a cantaloupe shade of orange so ripe it practically drips juice onto the floor. My work keeps getting better. Everything that can go right, does. Usually, painting the second eye in a face—and making all those tiny details match—is a challenge. Today, it’s easy. Every part of the painting sings so loudly that I can almost hear the canvas buzz. It’s all overwhelmingly real.

Or maybe their reactions have nothing to do with me, and this is just how people suffer.

But I never hit send. In every message, I sensed that I was begging, and when you have to beg someone to stay, they’ve already left.

thumb over bumps in the grid. One mark is still wet. I smear it, my thumb moving forward, getting dangerously close to the work. My thumb’s right on the line now, grazing the front, smudging the thinnest streak across the top. And—I have an idea for my next project. It’s perfect, terrible. Maybe too dark, even for me. Then again, maybe I want to lean into the darkness. Maybe I want to dance with the devil. Maybe I want to go deep into my shadows and use everything I have—all the twisted thorns, sunken ships. Because maybe I’m ready to meet my own evil.

That real family isn’t about how much you have in common; it’s about how much you forgive.

It must showcase a religious scene, but I don’t recognize anyone in it. They’re just beautiful strangers to me, sparkling like a box of spilled jewels.