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After my husband died, when Eric called and asked what he could do for me, I asked him to paint a portrait of my husband.  The painting arrived as I was on my way to teach a class and decided not to take the time to open it until the evening.  By nighttime, I was excitedly removing its packing materials and steeling myself for what I anticipated would be disappointment – no one saw him the way you did, I warned myself, no one’s version of him would match your own.  And then I eased it out of its plastic wrapping and held in my hands my husband. It was the first time since his death that I felt joy.  This stapled canvas held his face, it recreated the slight brown spot on his forehead, the crag of his cheek, the unruly white eyebrows, the intense look of his eyes. I held this rectangular version of him in my hands again, and shrieked “You’re home.”  This was no mere painting to me; it was a piece of him. (Elizabeth Meyer)