Two Figures

Years ago, we went to Cincinnati to visit a museum. A free museum. With my mom's best friend.

At the time, i couldn't imagine anything more boring. I remember being itchy and hot and my feet being tired. There was a Monet there that year. And all I wanted was to go home.

On Saturday, about fifteen of my friends and I piled in our cars and headed north to Cincinnati again.

It had been a few years.

This time, I was excited.

This time, I couldn't wait to get inside the huge building with tall ceilings and the maze of rooms.

We climbed the road to the museum, alongside Mount Adams, and a skating pond where boys were playing hockey.

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We walked into the museum and all scattered, finding the art we loved.

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And found ourselves staring at the same painting.

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I walked close and then stepped away.

My eyes focusing on the colors, the lines.

My mind focusing on what it was my eyes couldn't see.

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Everyone began to whisper.

'This is the most romantic thing I have ever seen.'

I smiled.

Over and over again, I heard it said.

It was a painting of 'a couple who had been together forever'.

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I lingered for a while after everyone moved on.

Because in that painting, I could hear the wind blow.

I felt as though I had stumbled upon something secret.

A private moment.

I could hear the trees singing...

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Vincent never tells us whether this couple is in love.

Hey never tells us where they are.

Or where they are going.

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But somehow we know.

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Museums are no longer boring to me.

I don't get tired or itchy or hot.

All I can think about is how one day, a long time ago, someone sat before a canvas.

Someone created the work before me.

From a white canvas.

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Someone sat down to tell us a story.

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And decades later, I would know the wind was blowing.