remembering how

it’s high summer in the alps. halos of snow circling the pyrenees. and you are descending toward the village of alsace in the province lorraine after hiking six. maybe seven. hours. notice white boards crossed neatly against red buildings like crosses. a village. and the slate blue mountains. a sun above your face but not in the painting. not yet. scruffy, cumulus clouds trickle into being still on the canvass. and you have to stop near a tinkling creek at the age of thirty. with a honeymoon wife. and this painting that you are about to buy in the small village will serve as the symbol. and move from above the fireplace to downstairs in the den. over the years. be replaced by broken down houses in reds and purples and clay cats and snakes and bowls and school mug shots. and framed drawings of stickpeople fingerpainted by your combined genetic tree. and around this time your daughter is kicked out of boarding school and your son ends up in rehab. and you have totaled your audi. and are being sued. but only some of this will be true. you notice the green first in the distance on the far basement wall as you carry another load of laundry to the washroom. and then the blue slate mountains are rubbermaids stacked with last year’s christmas lights. the red and white buildings could be idling ambulances from the second great war, and this is the place in the story where you think to yourself. that honeymoon. twenty-three years ago. a representation of a scene. like letting a window open.