Still, I hold myself back. Still, I carry the colors of my soul in muted light for few to see. Still, my hands reach not for paints and rusted nonsensical objects that beg for creative revival. And now you are sick, Beloved. Now, the reasons and seasons of holding back seem wasted and small. That disease. That disease that catches our breath and stops the tick-tick-ticking on the kitchen wall, I will scale its mountainous fear. I will throw myself off the cliff of its intrusion and yank the rip cord. Rip it hard and watch the nylon colors mushroom skyward. I will float, rainbow-hued and billowing, against heaven's cellar floor. I will be seen, Beloved. I will be seen for you.