I've been drawing the same face since I was a child. A raven-haired woman too tall to guess. She often crowds the paper, bent over like she didn't quite anticipate her inability to fit. And she's always crying. Never the same way. crying, sobbing, weeping, wimpering. Some sad, some angry, some filled with relief. But she's always crying.

She changed as I did. When I broke my arm falling off the swings, she showed up bruised and bloodied. When I got into the arts program of my dreams, she clutched a diploma to her chest.

As the drawings progressed, she began to shrink. She had started with features too elongated, jagged edges that faded into the blank page left behind her. But as I aged, as my art solidified, she began to whither and become more fragile. She began to sit more than stand. By my second year of college, she used a wheelchair.

I accepted this gradient into my art. In college, after long days of rigorous lessons on the proper forms, drawing her became my solace. I still knew nothing about her. But I could draw her in my sleep. (And I did, several times, to the annoyance of the landlord who's wall I ruined.)

I finished college and started a studio in the city. After much debate, my friend convinced me to name it "the Sobbing Woman" after the works that had gained me popularity. (thanks to a viral video she made of the drawing-on-the-wall incident.)

So there I was. Fresh out of college. Ready to take on the art world and create a name for myself. But the question of the Sobbing Woman's identity still haunted me. I stayed up at night, drawing her face, trying to find recognition amongst the creases. I searched Google to no avail.

The question would have to wait, I decided, as my life was swept into a world of exhibits and networking.

Until one brisk November morning sitting in my studio. She wasn't crying, but I knew it was her. She had the same wheelchair I had drawn for years, and a knit blanket draped over her legs that I remembered sketching last winter. Her hair was tucked back into a loose braid, her hands worn by time and trial.

She met my astonished gaze from across the studio. Forgotten watercolors crashed to the floor as I saw her over the top of my canvas. She smiled softly, like she had expected this. When she spoke, her voice reminded me of wind through the branches of my childhood tree. Scratching and quiet, but in a way that felt like home.

I had thousands of questions swirling in my mind. "Who are you?" "Why do I always draw you?" "Are you real? Is this a dream?" "How did you find me?" But her voice silenced them all.

"What are you painting?"

So I showed her. I showed her the brook and the barn I had been working on all morning. I lamented how the light through the trees wasn't hitting the walls right, and how the water flowed unnaturally. It would never sell, I felt it in my heart. But as I explained this, she frowned.

"Why do you paint this?"

I opened my mouth and closed it. I started, "Well, rural landscapes are popular now, and if I want a piece to sell-"

"No, why do you paint this?" She lifted a knarled finger to point at the cracks in the rocks, the light falling on the peeling paint, the broken wood of the barn.

I stared at her. "I guess," I measured out slowly, "It's more beautiful if there are imperfections. It shows the emotion of the scene; that there were memories and a life lived there. That... so that the onlooker recognises something more than just the artist's skill."

Tears pooled at the corner of her eyes as I explained, tracing crystiline paths down her sallow cheeks. I looked into her eyes, feeling empathy and connection for her.

She nodded her head, as though my answer was all she needed to hear. Or maybe all I needed to hear. To remind myself why I started drawing all those years ago.

At this thought, she patted my shoulder motherly, and turned to go.

"Wait." I stole my courage. "Who are you? Why have I always drawn you?"

She stoped, chair creaking as her weight shifted back. I searched the back of her head, hoping to find something. She breathed in. Out. A fresh flood of tears poured down her face. Emotion cascaded off her, waves of joy, sadness, fear, relief, anger. Each brings a memory.

I am ten, I have skinned my knee falling off my bike. My father holds me close and combs his hadn through my hair. I am relieved.

I am thirteen. My friends gather, jostling, around me as I blow my birthday candles out. I can't remember feeling more joyous than this.

I am seventeen. My date has stood me up for prom. I watch him dance with another as I am overcome with anger and sadness.

I am twenty four. My mother lies in the hospital bed, losing the battle for her life. We sit next to her, desperate and helpless, as monitors count down the days she has left. Her hand feels paper-thin in my palm. I grieve silently.

I look at the lady, this Sobbing Woman, and finally understand. I understand all those drawings. All those faces and tears. My passion, my emotion. My "Why." Why I draw and paint. Why I love and I lose and I love again. Why I keep going.

A laugh builds in my throat, rumbling out of me like a thunder. I bend over, laughing and clutching my stomach. Laughing at the discovery of my muse. Laughing at my art. Laughing at the world for all it's ineffability.

She leaves- still sobbing, as I turn back to my painting- still laughing.