I waited until he had played the final somber chord. Then I asked, “Angelo, why don’t you ever look at the Van Gogh painting above your piano? Or the one over your bed?”

“I can’t,” Angelo said plainly, balling up the lyrics he had just jotted down.

“You can’t look at paintings on your own walls?” I asked.

“Rosaline and I loved Van Gogh’s paintings. You can’t see his bright colors and brave brushstrokes and not feel alive.”

Angelo's eyes flicked up to the sunflowers for a fraction of a second, and something like hope passed over his face. He bit down hard on the back of his chair.

“No," he said. "I will not feel that without her.”