Beacon

Bright blue skies, the last of the fires of fall piling up along the parkway in mounds and swirls of orange and yellow, flying across the George Washington bridge in the early afternoon and miles of road underneath our feet. A week washes from my system in our wake. I breathe. 

In the small hamlet upstate, decades of questionable art spreads out in the giant factory. Crowds of intellectual urbanites wading through the commentary, trying to add their own but not creating much more than an Instagram speck. Your head roars suddenly with familiarity, with things to say and memories of once having tried to say them. Your commitments strangle you without compensating for the damage. They write from far away, so far away you can barely hear their muffled invites, reminders of an art you've lost and a world you fought so hard to let embrace you. 

The pretenses fall away, their carefully curated Saturday art gallery fashions become blurry in your eyes. Outside there is a bright sunlight in the cold wind, raging storms inviting you to dance again. You miss them terribly. 

Drive back to the city in silence.