sidewalk.
And then I must have run although I don't remember. Suddenly I was at the end of the line of people waiting for the gallery show to start, and I was hot and breathing heavily.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
It couldn't be. It couldn't be. It's all a strange coincidence. It has to be.
I started weaving through the waiting people, some shooting me dirty looks, a few telling me to get back to the end. I ignored them. I needed to get to the front window.
I had to see. Oh, God, I had to see.
Several people were leaned back against the glass of the front display window and I stood on my tiptoes to see above them, but wasn't tall enough. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, I need to see in there," I said, my voice quivering. The four people looked at me curiously, but all began moving out of the way, like a curtain opening.
I held my breath and fisted my hands.
And there it was. Our spring. In vibrant. Living. Color.
I gasped out a loud sob and reeled, my hand coming up to my mouth and tears springing to my eyes. The world grew bright around me, and adrenaline exploded through my body.
Yes, it was our spring. I recognized every rock, every shrub, every blade of grass.
And I recognized myself.
I was standing tall and proud, powerful and sure in front of a huge snake looming at me from our rock domain. My head was held high, my shoulders back, my hair cascading down my back and covering my nakedness with only the backs of my shoulders and legs on display. My face wasn't visible, but it was me.
My eyes moved down to the small plaque beneath it to the title of the painting. "The Snake Wrangler." I laughed out a strangled sob and then brought both hands up to my mouth and simply stood crying for several minutes until I was in control enough to move away from the window and through the people to the front of the line.
No one tried to stop me, no one told me to get to the back of the line. They just parted and let me through, shooting me looks of confusion and surprise. I was crying outright now, not even attempting to hide my tears.
I couldn't have if I'd tried.
He's here. I can feel him.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
When I made it to the front of the line, a guy in a black suit looked at me with wide eyes, his gaze sweeping down my jean-clad body. "I need to get in there," I said, drying my tears quickly with the sleeve of my shirt, my voice still coming from somewhere outside of me. I thought it sounded strong though, unwavering.
"I'm sorry. You need a ticket. All these people have tickets." He inclined his head to the line formed behind us.
"Here you go," Molly said, suddenly appearing beside me and holding something out toward the man. "Two pre-entry tickets." He took them, his eyes moving back and forth between us. He glanced down at the tickets quickly and nodded his head toward the gallery.
I rushed to the glass door and pulled it open, scanning the surroundings. As I took in the art hanging on every square inch of the gallery walls—our spring, morning glories, and me —over and over, everywhere, always the back of me, or a very slight profile, but always me. Excitement, fear, adrenalin and extreme anxiety coursed through me. But mostly awe. I felt as though my heart was beating right out of my chest. I looked around wildly.
Where is he? Where is he?
Molly's hand clamped down on my arm and I gratefully leaned in to her for support. "Come on," she said quietly. "He's gotta be close."
"Yes," I squeaked out, my blood pressure skyrocketing.
He has to be close. There's a spring. I'll wait for you. I'll be there.
We walked around a wall of art and when we came out on the other side, there he was. The whole world faded away and it was just him. Calder. My Calder.
He was alive. He was alive.
I felt the tears coursing down my cheeks again and all I could do for a full minute was stare, drink him in, allow my mind to try to make sense of the reality right in front of me.
He was standing and talking to a small group of people
And then I must have run although I don't remember. Suddenly I was at the end of the line of people waiting for the gallery show to start, and I was hot and breathing heavily.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
It couldn't be. It couldn't be. It's all a strange coincidence. It has to be.
I started weaving through the waiting people, some shooting me dirty looks, a few telling me to get back to the end. I ignored them. I needed to get to the front window.
I had to see. Oh, God, I had to see.
Several people were leaned back against the glass of the front display window and I stood on my tiptoes to see above them, but wasn't tall enough. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, I need to see in there," I said, my voice quivering. The four people looked at me curiously, but all began moving out of the way, like a curtain opening.
I held my breath and fisted my hands.
And there it was. Our spring. In vibrant. Living. Color.
I gasped out a loud sob and reeled, my hand coming up to my mouth and tears springing to my eyes. The world grew bright around me, and adrenaline exploded through my body.
Yes, it was our spring. I recognized every rock, every shrub, every blade of grass.
And I recognized myself.
I was standing tall and proud, powerful and sure in front of a huge snake looming at me from our rock domain. My head was held high, my shoulders back, my hair cascading down my back and covering my nakedness with only the backs of my shoulders and legs on display. My face wasn't visible, but it was me.
My eyes moved down to the small plaque beneath it to the title of the painting. "The Snake Wrangler." I laughed out a strangled sob and then brought both hands up to my mouth and simply stood crying for several minutes until I was in control enough to move away from the window and through the people to the front of the line.
No one tried to stop me, no one told me to get to the back of the line. They just parted and let me through, shooting me looks of confusion and surprise. I was crying outright now, not even attempting to hide my tears.
I couldn't have if I'd tried.
He's here. I can feel him.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
When I made it to the front of the line, a guy in a black suit looked at me with wide eyes, his gaze sweeping down my jean-clad body. "I need to get in there," I said, drying my tears quickly with the sleeve of my shirt, my voice still coming from somewhere outside of me. I thought it sounded strong though, unwavering.
"I'm sorry. You need a ticket. All these people have tickets." He inclined his head to the line formed behind us.
"Here you go," Molly said, suddenly appearing beside me and holding something out toward the man. "Two pre-entry tickets." He took them, his eyes moving back and forth between us. He glanced down at the tickets quickly and nodded his head toward the gallery.
I rushed to the glass door and pulled it open, scanning the surroundings. As I took in the art hanging on every square inch of the gallery walls—our spring, morning glories, and me —over and over, everywhere, always the back of me, or a very slight profile, but always me. Excitement, fear, adrenalin and extreme anxiety coursed through me. But mostly awe. I felt as though my heart was beating right out of my chest. I looked around wildly.
Where is he? Where is he?
Molly's hand clamped down on my arm and I gratefully leaned in to her for support. "Come on," she said quietly. "He's gotta be close."
"Yes," I squeaked out, my blood pressure skyrocketing.
He has to be close. There's a spring. I'll wait for you. I'll be there.
We walked around a wall of art and when we came out on the other side, there he was. The whole world faded away and it was just him. Calder. My Calder.
He was alive. He was alive.
I felt the tears coursing down my cheeks again and all I could do for a full minute was stare, drink him in, allow my mind to try to make sense of the reality right in front of me.
He was standing and talking to a small group of people
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