Let Him Have His Moon

Gavin Henson had spent five years as a wildlife painter and collected more awards than I could count.

The year my father lay in the ICU, I begged him to paint one portrait of my dad, something to keep.

He only turned the pen over in his fingers and answered, flat.

"Painting people ruins my feel for animals. You can generate one with AI."

I swallowed the heat rising in my eyes, and I never brought it up again, not even after my father died.

Two days ago was the anniversary of his death. I went back to pay my respects, and to tidy the old house while I was there.