As those of you who’ve been reading my meanderings already know, my father passed away in January. Dad was an accomplished artist, and many of his paintings hang in our house. This week we added one more.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d happened to mention to my mother that my wife and I loved a particular painting of his, and she surprised us by packaging it up and shipping it north from Florida. She told me that she did this partially because it was my birthday, and partially because she felt that since Irene and I liked it so much we should have it to enjoy.

Here’s the fanciful fish I’ve admired for years:

When I unpacked the painting and prepared to hang it, I saw that there was a second, secret painting hidden on the back. Dad usually stretched his own canvas rather than purchase it prestretched, and if he didn’t like a particular piece, he’s remove it from its frame and use the reverse side.

Here’s the image I discovered on the back:

Not a painting I’d choose to look at every day—it seems a bit too melancholy for my taste—but it’s certainly beautiful in its own way. Sadly, I’ll never get the chance to find out what caused him to abandon it.

We hung it at the top of the stairs, where we’ll see it every day. After doing so, I took a step back, admiring it. I wanted to tell Dad how beautiful I thought it was and how happy it made me to see it hanging there, and in that moment it hit me once more how there’s no longer a way for me to tell him those things. I got choked up remembering yet again that our conversation has now turned into a monologue.

I miss him.