I am ten years old again. Early spring, and the air outside is already heavy, swollen with the scent of honeysuckle. Gigantic glass doors from the old greenhouse, now part of my father’s art studio, are propped open for visitors, too sweaty to see through. When I sneak inside like a lonesome cat, I listen for Beatrice, then Bea, how he sing-songs my name and floats it into the air, always senses that I’m here. Men in skinny black suits with tiny notebooks whisper into the silence, one holding his lead pencil to his lips before he scribbles something down. No cell phones are allowed. There is to be an auction. On one long table, a few of my father’s old palettes are fanned out, next to sketches wrapped in brown paper that Henry Cooper III never cared about. Two ballet dancers still dressed in black pants and leotards whisper about what is for sale, holding tight to each other until the little one stretches her long white neck up toward the ceiling, takes in a noisy breath, and then breaks the silence when she calls out my father’s nickname, Coop.

The crowd grows. My fingers touch dried paint on a palette quickly, as if testing for heat. Finished paintings lean against bright white walls or stand elevated on easels, inviting inspection and prayer. In one corner next to a bank of windows is an unfinished portrait. Look, don’t touch: Us, my hand in his, the sash of my yellow sundress undone, a wilted handkerchief in the breast pocket of his wrinkled linen jacket, a faded blue. A sense of movement even in our stillness. We are waiting to board the Silver Comet from Atlanta to Birmingham, to visit some of my mother’s relations. She calls them the old people. This image of the two of us climbing aboard the train stuck in my father’s head. Nothing would do, he needed to sketch it.

I am a beggar, the bitter taste of please and amen and abracadabra in my mouth, no way to rinse away winter, a mound of red dirt covered with a spread of yellow roses. Mother said, Pick one, pick two, take them home and press them inside a book. And then what? They die a crusty brown? No, no, my eyes are closed. You can’t make me see him in that box.

He smiles and says, I knew you were here. On his favorite easel, the unfinished painting is draped in fine linen, and Henry Cooper III asks me, Can you pat the top of your head and wink at the same time?  When I do it, he laughs once more and hands over a Hershey bar. Chocolate makes my heart beat faster. Then I feel the whipping of the linen cloth, a breeze he taught me. He’ll use a sable brush, squeeze small dabs of glossy yellow, bronze and cream onto an old palette, to get my hair right. It’s not just one color. Yes, he says, that’s it, Daughter, perfect as a dream. Don’t move now, the light is just right.