Cold, measured, you drew your father while he lay dying, teasing him into the perfection of your art, offering fresh life in your swiftest lines.
It was reciprocal: his eyes lolled back into where experiences had coiled uselessly, gave you their expression of intensity to inherit, not despair.
His breath balanced on the inheld breath of the awed wind, brushing your fist as it clenched; his light entered the lead in your pencil with the incipience of day.
A makeshift Creator, you stayed him in your world where steeples stretched taller for him in the dark, and swansongs dressed his bones with something like skin,
replacing hollows with a smudged bloom. Tell those who criticised your control how art and life used each other with such hallowing that the paper
became a cradle when you scooped him up – sanctified into your wrung hand.