how can words be brave
she goes only so far with her sentences
so far with little imperfect pearls
watching them break away from the strand and roll away
across the museum floor
she pretends to be a paper doll
with those high shoes
moving her away from the earth
where she belongs, but doesn’t want to stay
the lumpy pearls are spinning across the high-gloss parquet
how is it the wood shines so
burdened all day beneath novices and admirers
gilded old masters
their oily stares, thoughtless and menacing
deny her the luxury of concealment
does she flop about the perfect floor
scooping up the renegade low-luster gems
where are her words now
she can’t think on her feet
they are too far from the ground in silly paper dolls shoes
old men are staring
in beaten leathery soles that don’t scuff
every gem ball has disappeared
the broken strand dangles from her thin white sweater
she has no words
she has no pearls
there is one set of old eyes upon her
he knows her heart was once
not made of paper
she wills the oily-eyed man
to kiss her wet cheek and pull her
into the linen where she could rest alongside him
for all eternity
her silent fingers lurch deftly over the velvet rope
she fondles the painting
an elderly gentleman in a white-starched shirt
and shiny black Oxfords asks her to leave quietly
which is fine by her
she has no words left anyway
this is an ink rendering I did in college – the assignment was to copy an old master
I chose Rembrandt
Long ago I promised myself I wouldn’t morph into a stereotypical mother. That mom wants to shove her big son’s, size 14 feet into toddler shoes again. That mom wants to place a puppy-patterned hat on her sixteen-year-old daughter’s head.
Single digit temperatures have forced me and the giant husband indoors. During yesterday’s mall-walk while following orange footprints affixed to tile, a scant tear pooled in the corner of my eye. A beautiful little dress with flowers bursting like a spring garden along its hemline had caught my attention. I imagined the delicate daughter, my Caroline twirling in it. Her toddler cheeks rosy pink and her giggling as pure as the precious white dress.
Then wouldn’t you know my other eye formed a tiny tear as we passed by the toddler shoes. I remembered the big son – my Max – running down our old, wood-lined driveway. Back then, his hair stuck straight up as if in perpetual shock and he loved wearing work boots. The work boots gave him a ‘thumpy’ gait and made his diapered rear end bounce from side to side. This beloved memory is forever velcroed to my heart.
Caroline and Max are no longer small. I’ve had the joy of watching their shoe sizes change. They’ve grown into warm-hearted and gracious teens. Still I pray, when they walk into adulthood they never forget the simple goodness of wearing little shoes.
Okay, I’ll admit it. I’ve become a walking cliché. 🙂
Thank you. May you dream of following the footsteps of happiness.
Max and Caroline painted long ago with acrylic craft paint. I plan on redoing this painting someday. It needs more cool colors. I’m not too happy with it, but it worked for the post. Both photos taken yesterday morning at the Newburgh Mall. Sorry – I don’t know who designed the dress or the workboots.
The giant husband and I walked through 2014 summer nights. Now, with another educational season upon us and its accompanying lunacy, we’ve altered our exercise routine. Our sneaker feet have shifted to 5 AM. It was a little strange at first: the quiet of our home, the blackened windows, and the silence of the street save our morning conversations spoken in hushed tones.
Early AM before too many electric lights interfere, the liquid sky is like indigo wine and the stars vibrate like golden glass. I’m embarrassed to say I’d forgotten the exquisite beauty of the stars. So many stars, so many constellations I don’t know the names of… I promised myself to never forget the sky’s treasures again. They are worth drinking in and wishing upon.
Thank you. May you dream bathed in star glow and powdered with dream dust…
I don’t subscribe to the theory of numbers influencing our lives in strange and exotic ways. I’d like to believe, we make our own way and life happens. Though I don’t support numerology, I am quite fond of eight’s design. The figure eight is a pretty thing and much can be embellished upon its infinitely binding shapes –
The number eight is also splendid for another reason. I have it on good authority that red swan shoes will be all the rage this coming autumn. For the modest price of $8 dollars, you can purchase your own glamourous pair of fashion-forward, red swan shoes…
Thank you and goodnight. May you dream of skating flawless figure eights across the ice in your beautiful red swan shoes…
all for one and one for all (‘for’ + ‘for’ = eight) 😉
Red Swan Shoes created July 20, 2014 under a bright blue sky