A Day in Lavender
At the circus there was never enough lavender. Later, at the gallery, some stains of the recently departed. I spoke of the syringe as an object at which it is terrible to look. No, you said, in the painting it is a subject, with a hint of lavender. We’d passed a bicycle, its frame slightly bent up but undeniably a shade of lavender. Somewhat like a giant’s eyeglasses I said, having a fondness for frames and what one sees in them. Had I ever owned a lavender bicycle? My childhood bedroom was painted lavender, and I recall a stuffed chair with lavender flowers. My great aunt’s bedroom was also lavender and so was her bath, entirely. Towels? you asked. I nodded. And even the soap. Now here, you pointed out hours later, a delicate and somber lavender tinting the late evening sky, is a woman adrift on a bed, a possible subject posed for our appraisal. But no, I said, in the painting she becomes an object, with a hint of lavender. You must have loved her a lot, he said. Then night swiped our color away.
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