My rumination continues to machinate, with memories both lovely and mournful floating to the surface then sinking back to the depths.
Meanwhile, in Columbus Park, a majestic dragon sits in a yard beside a gallery. The theme of the show is “Rust” and metal artist Wes Casey has created an amazing work. I stand beside his wife Genevieve. gazing in awe at the sculpture.
Then I walk across the street and buy a bar of tea tree soap. I run into a friend and his lady, hugging them both, talking about the art around us. They gesture to their house, next door, in this neighborhood in Northeast Kansas City. We walk around the room, touching the pottery, talking about a benefit for Harvesters next month. I purchase a piece of pottery and go back into the night, walking through the crowds, tucking my scarf around my neck.
I drive my car down The Paseo. When I cross 18th street, I pull over to take a photo of a sign rising into the night. Then I continue home, listening to the murmur of an interview on the radio, thinking about art, and chores, and the turning of the seasons.
I feel a tightness across my shoulders, the aftermath of the falling door. I have no complaints though; it could have been so much worse. The door could have knocked me down the stairs when it fell. The mirror could have broken. My face could have born the brunt of the heavy wood. I can handle sore shoulders.
It’s the twenty-first day of the thirty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining. L