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Most people don’t even think of it, but the supermarket is an artist’s playground. So many colors and textures. Millions of inspirations, from the stand full of lemons to the counter full of meats. I’d like to set up a little easel in the produce section and spend my day painting mountains of broccoli and fields of spinach.
Dear You,
It’s been a couple of years since that night we went driving through Philly. It was cold as hell out, but we had the windows down and the radio playing. I miss that. I miss you.
We ate dinner at some dinky little place in West Philly. It was dimly lit and we were the only ones there. We talked about politics and art and life while sipping red wine. You rambled on and on about something you were working on and all I could think of was how nice and straight your teeth were. Then you’d ask me a question and listen intently as I spoke, your head tilted slightly to the side. You’d nod and squint a little, deeply intrenched in my words. I felt bad I couldn’t focus as well when you spoke, but I was more interested in studying your face.
Your hair was cropped but still had a slight curl to it. Your eyes were as clear a blue as the sky beyond my window right now. They shimmered a little, like a stereotypical image of Santa with a glimmering eye. Your lips were thin, but sprung to life as you talked passionately about your projects. I observed every bend, curve, and fold in your face for that hour we sat there together. I committed it to memory as if it were the last time I would ever see you. My eyes left no freckle unnoticed, no eyelash unattended. You were wearing a grey t-shirt and some blue jeans under an enormous black winter puffer coat that you slung on the empty chair next to you.
After dinner we got in your car and set out on a trip with no destination. We were deep into the city in the places no one else goes when I felt it. The world could end right now and I would die happy I thought to myself. It was an odd thing to think, maybe even a little dramatic, but I couldn’t help but feel it. I felt happy and sad and loved. You would touch my hand when we stopped at red lights and it was like no other feeling I had ever experienced.
The last time we spoke was a month after that night. A piece of me has been missing since then. I moved here, you stayed there, and we figured it was best to part ways. I have no idea what your life is like now. Sometimes, on a lonely night, my mind wanders and I think of you sitting in that little restaurant reading a book and drinking a glass of wine. Maybe you’ve gotten married now and someone out there is getting to study your face instead of me. Maybe they’ve noticed the constellation of freckles on your face or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking deeply about something.
I’m letting you go now. You’re free of me. Maybe you were free of me the day we parted ways. Maybe I’m the one that needs freeing. Either way, I’m going to stop thinking about you and that night or any other night we were together. I’ll let your face fade from my memory. I’ll feel happy for having known you, but not sad for having lost you.
Thank you for loving me in a time I can only imagine I was close to unlovable. Goodbye.
collage of colored construction paper with an ink drawing on top
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I am the person who watches the clouds float through the sky. I am the person who watches the grass rustle and the trees sway. I notice patterns in tree bark, step over cracks in sidewalks, and marvel at straight edges in buildings. I can stare at a tree all day long and never tire of it. I listen to the gentle lapping of water and feel soothed. Sand in my toes or dirt on my hands feels natural. I can close my eyes, imagine a flower, and be overcome by the smell of it though it’s not in front of me. Birds soaring in the sky is a marvelous sight to me and open fields make my heart skip a beat. Snow falling on my face is an indescribable joy. As a kid, I played in streams and rolled around in the grass. I wish I could still do that.
I am part of nature. I may live in a big city with sheltering walls and artificial means of heat, but I am of and from nature. The science behind what makes the sky blue is of no concern to me. All I care about is that the sky is blue and what a beautiful blue it is today.
Baseball Hall of Fame Art 