Claude Monet, Argenteuil, 1875

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text] It was a lot of things. It was the algae blooms swimming against the tide. It was the convent of masts, making partial signs of the cross across the sky’s chest. The eyes & brow suspended in clouds passing. You could almost feel the dew on the nose of the bows                                quivering.                                                                               I know the sun, tinged red, sat somewhere above the blue, burning into the day. * It was a thousand miles ago, & now I can only imagine those deep December nights in Ohio. Selling the house. Coming to visit you, frail & fevered pressing your cold hands together & together watching the dancers across the street in the one room studio. Each night, the same couple curving over the hardwood, knees bent      bending lead & follow, chest to chest, smooth                                                                                       then slow          slow. I think of the night you whispered how you wanted just one more summer. Just one more chance to see the geese floating through the ravine. The deer in the middle of the rain-kissed leaves. The tiny Monet postcard in white frame on the nightstand. “I’d like to go there,” you said. Your hand crumpling around a tissue. * Calls were made. Come now. Come get your goodbyes. Come touch each light blue bead of the rosary with us, passing it gently through the calm of our fingers. * That night, I stepped outside onto the wet black brick of the patio, blew smoke                      under the glow of the yellow bulb & noticed him across the street, locking the front door of the studio.                                                                                                                           He turned, looked me in the eyes offered a short nod as I stood still as a fawn scarved in the steam of its own breath. The snow staring back into us like white on a cloud. [/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]
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