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the first

The yarmarka (farmer's market) is about to close. Some of the people are already packing up, offering their last bruised tomatoes at half-price to anyone walking past them.  I am wandering, staring at bunches of herbs, at the same old options - cabbage, pepper, potato, garlic, apple, cucumber. But then I see a pile of peas. The season must have come early this year. I buy a kilo, and some mint. I know what is for dinner. We have not had it in eleven months.

At home, I rip the bag open, showing them to V. She stands by the kitchen table, eyes wide. I crack one open, showing her the little rounds inside. She plucks one out, her pinky pointing to the ceiling.
"Try it." I tell her.
She does, but she does not like it.

I pull out a bowl for them. She jumps up and down a few times. V always wants to help in the kitchen. I pull her to my lap, and we begin pulling them out from the shells. She learns quickly, tossing them with a flourish into the bowl, a few cascading to the flo…

the sculpture garden


Emerging like a white slug, its pale underbelly translucent in the afternoon sun. That is how Spring came. Soft, pathetic, vulnerable. I see creosote black chunks of snow on the dead grass. I sense the dust in the air, not early flowers, just a burnt chemical smell, of ozone. Spring is late, with a half-baked apology in its coat pocket.

The windows are open. Stray dogs are sleeping in loose groups in the mud, no longer fighting over bones from the trash, no longer running up and down the icy sidewalk looking for handouts. Their vacation has begun.

I feel uncomfortable, lost.

In the back pocket of my jeans is a piece of paper that went through the wash. Pages fused together, unrecognizable, but clean. That is how I feel. Peel me apart and you will find nothing but some scribbles that were soaped and spun into nothing. A few letters to trace, a receipt for some vegetables.



I get E to school on time. I pick her up like a Swiss clock, turning the corner of the playground at 6 every day. She loves her birthday toys so much. They keep her awake late, until she is exhausted.

N comes and goes like a little bird, chirping jokes in my ear. She grows more beautiful to me every day.

But when I look in the mirror, my face looks thousands of miles away.

Last night I dreamt about a sculpture garden. It was a memory crammed full of details. I think it was in Munich, about 15 years ago.


The place is lush and green. Great trees throw long shadows across thick grass. People move in small groups. Women's arms are draped through the elbows of men. Hushed conversations are shared. There is a faint smell of lilacs. We move on a great rise overlooking the city - but what city? It is not Munich. It looks more like Rome now. The sculptures are bronze - patinaed and smooth. I rest my hand on one, feeling the chill of Spring now. A guard comes towards me, waves me off. You are not supposed to touch them.

The sculptures are realistic, perfectly proportioned - all caught in perfect gestures. Dolphins, dancing maidens, a lion, a wedding. I wander the place, doubling back across small paths, seeing and re-seeing them. Music is swirling around my head - Claire de Lune by Debussy, playing over and over. It is a magnificent place. It gives me goosebumps. I spend long afternoons here, eating some lunch on a bench. The silence is intoxicating.

I wake up, and try to remember visiting this place. I search for it on the computer, and understand I have never been there, because it does not exist. 

But I know the park. I have surely been there.

Comments

Omgrrrl said…
A. Spring is late, with a half-baked apology in its coat pocket. FREAKING BRILLIANT!

2. You have been there. You felt the sculpture.

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