signature and sign
She knew. When the phone ceased to ring and every refresh of her inbox left it just like it ever was, when her name disappeared like it had never been a memory to those who’d nailed her canvases to walls, signature and sign a harsh scrawled blotch in a corner like she’d rather be forgotten, like the paintings themselves were her substance. She knew that once the absence came it was the kind of presence that invaded, a hole that wrapped itself in fragments of her images until it became the images or the images became the absence. She couldn’t tell because every work after was a frame for its echo and every work before a hole that felt its lack. They leaned against a wall, wooden structures rigid with cloth and gesso, waiting for her to paint the stillness in, the silence of a room just vacated, the hesitation behind an incomplete phrase. Over and over as if it could mean anything else.