Memories from Walking to a Workshop
Yellow siding, not plain yellow or primary yellow, but a yellow the color of Stella d'Oro lilies as they're about to open. Domesticated roses, looking for all the world as if they were meant to grow wild, being hosed down by a man with rheumy eyes and crepey hands, the sound of water being forced from a nozzle competing as I try to tell him how much I enjoy his garden. A hallway with sunshine pooling on wooden floors grown mellow from the polishing of thousands of feet. Nine over nines and twelve over twelves, single panes of glass that barely block the winds of winter, when the Atlantic calls the fishermen home. A sunny courtyard that looks inviting but the door locks behind you, so you find a gate and walk around to the front of the building and go in again, without admitting you ignored the sign that said the patio was closed. Paintings hanging one by one, five in all, over a table, words and images m...