A Renaissance Painting
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Collette had to admit to herself that Wednesday did not quite appear bright either. And yet the lightening and rumbling thunder of the previous afternoon had been altogether lovely, with the variant shades of the sky and the alarmingly bright fairy green grass of the yard at home. Mom and Rose and Collette had sat out on the porch as the sun went down beyond the storm. The mist of the rain and the small green buds of the trees had managed to create a fine haze before the sky, almost as if it were in a dream.
“The sky looks like a Renaissance painting,” Mom sighed happily, as Rose brought out two blankets to share on the porch swing.
And poor Carrie-Bri had managed to thoroughly injure her upper arm and shoulder. Going trap-shooting had cracked blood vessels and bruised her enough to make her carry only two plates at a time at work that night. She was in massive pain, returning later that night. She quickly changed into comfortable clothing and ate her warmed dinner of veal and potato boats. And yet, for never having shot a gun before, she was shattering three to four out of every five clay pigeons. Joe also, faired similar, and if it weren’t for the sore shoulder, all would have been well.
But Dad was reading Dave Dawson to the little ones, Mom was showing them the new string of Italian street bulbs for the travel trailer, and the evening was good.
And besides everything else, Collette decided it was going to be a good day, although the headaches were coming back. And yet it always seemed as though there were a piece missing from the puzzle. Sometimes Collette looked down the road and thought there were weeks of tediousness before a fresh spring wind came along. After all, if someone looked, there was always something to complain about – always. Perhaps there was something, still, to be said for taking each piece as it came, moment by moment. And yet, being an afterthought was something Collette realized she wanted more than ever those days. Shadowlands they were.