Vanitas, vanitas ... finitas, George grumbles as we stand and stare at Claesz’s painting, at a cluster of objects in disuse. He slumps at their emptiness. Invisible to him is the purpose that once inhabited the skull, the feather, the violin, the pocket watch. The spirits that filled the overturned glass.

George has put aside his own artwork for too long now. In his studio, brushes stand stiff as retired generals. Blobs of dried, cracked paint weight his wooden palette. My spring has sprung, he tells his doctor. My life’s a frivolous thing. We’re both of an age and we’ve had our fair share of troubles, so I don’t mind the odd snide remark, but I need to keep him away from the quicksand of despond, or I’ll sink, too. For our golden anniversary, I’ve dragged him across the ocean, back to the museum where he got his early spark for art.

For me, the painting is alive. I’m poised to let go of George’s hand, jump back and away from the goblet about to tumble from the frame and shatter at our sandaled feet. I grip his fingers, lament how he once saw that what is missing remains. Hovers.

Look, George, I whisper, I point to the crystal ball in the painting, to the artist’s reflection. Can you see? He’s still working! George untangles his fingers from mine, peers closer, as if scrying the glass. We stand still till our breaths settle and synchronize, and a glimmer of something forgotten shimmers in my periphery. He turns to face me, tackling a smile, seizes my hand, tugs me over to the next painting.

Bio: Mikki Aronoff