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.