Swinging in the Rain

A summery spring day was sinking to its knees. No rain for once. I'm alone. My wife is off again to see her brother who is inching his way to the grave—in hospital and out. So alone I go to an end-of-term, end-of-program, beginning-of-life celebratory art exhibit at the college up the hill.

Dressed up (so as not to embarass the young lady who so kindly invited me to this culmination of her Master of Fine Arts' effort) and trudging (after a sticky, dragging, wearisome day) breathing heavy now, moving like sludge uphill, I reach the hall spilling over with the aimless stir of many people of culture and cultivation pondering art work on wall, ceiling and floor.
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