A Painting

I always wanted that painting hanging on her wall,

the pastoral oil with fields surrounded by stands of trees

scattered across the rolling hills of the Jura.

I wanted the life I thought was there, with grandmothers

and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, assorted cousins,

where we would all play together surrounded by

the Alps in our own mountain chalet, our breakfasts

of whole fresh cow’s milk and French bread, homemade

jam, all delivered that morning by the neighbors

before I awoke to sun and blue sky, wiggling

my toes from under the feather bed and blue gingham

duvet cover, so fresh from drying in the sun.

Today, I bought a

my own painting of soft Colorado hills covered with

fields surrounded by stands of trees.

It hangs on my wall reminding me

of long hikes in the mountains,

bike rides along county roads

through acres of grazing cattle

with people that eat peach pie

with me, that hold me in their

arms, that love me just

as I love them.