there is talk of snow tomorrow, and this was a day for bundling baby into his bunting, cradling a foam-kissed coffee, and wending across the great lawn to spend a few good hours in the european painting wing at the met. it's a tempo we have known since that very first museum stroll when he was but six weeks new: wander, nurse, snooze, again. i had a good laugh with myself: folks travel the world to lay their eyes on the galleries that francis brown naps inside.
with boy in dreams, i got lost in the maritime oil paintings of j.m.w. turner and added him to my miles-long, and growing, list of people and places, words and ideas i want to know more about. and then: rounding the corner that brings into view the very scenes i could climb into and spin out a lifetime inside (rose-pink, a lesson, a violin, the opera, the barre, the little one in bronze, the very thought of a star) i heard a singsong-chirp and a happy-paw of palms lifted as if to say, let me see. as if to say, i love them, too.