![]() Never before had I thought paintings would be important. It meant something to me to see myself with them. When I was supposed to be cleaning, I would look out the windows of the museum, the paintings behind me reflected in the glass. ![]() I had scrubbed the walls until my palms were rough and dry. Before meeting my husband, I had mopped the floors of those galleries, over and over. I was used to that work and maybe it is my destiny. When I went with my husband to the museum, I felt I should be cleaning that place. I wasn’t seen as someone who could say anything at all and then publish it. I wanted to write about paintings, but I wasn’t seen as someone who could say something interesting about art. Now I have writing, but I also have too much of my own self. I had a husband and I left him I wonder how he is. ![]() In the afternoons there’s a spaciousness larger than I’ve ever wanted. The carriages driving close to my windows. If something flows through me, I think it is mine. ![]() When I went inside those shops, I was bored. People are walking in and out of the same four shops I know they haven’t bought anything good. ![]() The flames remind me of my future I’m afraid I might burn everything up. When I can’t get my thoughts down, I look at them. Out in the street, candles light every window. I THOUGHT THAT BEING in the country would help me write, with its fields and its horses, but I don’t think I was meant for that. ![]()
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