Close Enough for a Thursday

It’s been a long time since I’ve ventured into this new studio of mine— dust has settled like ashes on the unshelved books and the jars of brushes still packed away in boxes that intimidate me. Since I’m already here I might as well unpack one carton of my past. I slit the tape on a box labeled Miscellaneous, not knowing what I’ll find. Inside, a parrot, a toucan, some triangles and French curves. And buried deeper — a chambered nautilus, a Royal Doulton mare and foal, and a photo of my daughter in the beloved red clogs we bought in Reykjavik— and which she took to bed with her each night ‘til she outgrew them — legs crossed like a diva, already queen of her small world. The room watches in stillness as I lay each relic in the light like an offering, and with each one the unfamiliar space begins to feel it might really become my new studio. Something in me loosens— and begins to believe it too. My knees crack as I rise— it’s not exactly a resurrection, but it’s close enough for a Thursday. I dust off the windowsill, open another box, and let the light fall in. Maybe, just maybe, I might be home at last.