The ice storm was dripping into its third day. I wasn’t content to stay inside my apartment practicing the Vivaldi flute solo or reading Tolstoy, so I wrapped three woolen scarves around my ears and scarred neck, tucked the edges under my orange fleece jacket, and declared to Sam, my well-fed cat—
“I refuse to be held a
captive any longer.” Closed spaces
brought back tremors in my hands and I had seen them tremble a few minutes
earlier.
Out the door and into the
cold. But not for long. My favorite café was just around the corner
and I walked into the warm setting with a smile.
“Hi, Nate. Busy day today for you, right?”
Pressing steamed coffee into
a latte, Nate nodded, his brown eyes flashing a welcome to me.
After ordering my chai latte
and warmed up from the inside, I made this a quick café visit and hailed a cab
as I exited.
“Where to, miss? Somewhere warm for you, I hope,” the cabbie
asked as I slid into the back seat.
He switched on the meter and
turned the heat fan up to high.
“Art Institute, please. And thanks for that extra blast. It feels
good.”
Driving down the slick roads
took the usual ten minute ride a bit longer, but I was cozy in the cab and
finishing my latte. I began to
anticipate my usual visit to the museum.
It was a favorite place to enjoy afternoons with Mama, and, since her
passing three years ago, it had become a more important “artist’s date” to
keep.
Mama had shown her own
watercolors at small suburban galleries, but I hadn’t inherited the visual
talent. Instead, I’d watch her paint to
classical music and felt soothed by flute sonatas even as a toddler. So, when the time came to pursue my artistic
training, I left my crayons in my desk and started elementary school Saturday
lessons with Mr. Petri. He was first
flutist in the Chicago Symphony and, Mama had insisted to Papa, “We want the
best for our little, Vivi.”
“The best for her at this age is to
listen to her Papa and not fuss when we go to Mass,” was his reply. But Mama had scoffed at the reminder of my
rebellious shortcomings and so began my twenty year journey to first chair in
the Symphony.
“Here we are, safe and
sound,” repeated the cabbie. He may have
announced our arrival twice, but I was caught up in my memories.
“Oh, sorry. Here you go.”
I paid the driver and scrambled out the cab, watching my steps on the
slick steps. The paired lions had frost
on their manes and ice formed on their moustached mouths. I gently patted one of the paws—a habit I’d
learned from Mama and kept through the years.
“Thanks for guarding the
beauties inside,” I whispered as I passed the regal statues.
Inside the lobby, I sighed as
I shook off the scarves, unbuttoned my coat and walked over to the coat
checker. My heart fluttered a bit as I
anticipated my walk through the hallways to the painting that linked me to my
past.
image from NYTimes T magazine, September 2016
