Diana Battefeld, The Nap, 2019,  80 x 100 cm, [Oil on Linen]

 

We have lived a life of nomads, you and I,
going from country to country and city to city,
never growing roots.

I have slept on airports,
on planes,
in cars,
on trains,
on buses
on a boat,
in a helicopter,
in libraries,
in my office,
on windowsills, like an overfed cat,
on a rooftop,
on the beach,
in cheap hotels,
in hostels,
under a car, once,
even in an old castle,
but my favorite place has always been …
parks.

When I think of a city, all I remember is its breeze and distinctive sounds, smells, colors …
of its parks:
the Boboli Gardens,
Parc de la Ciutadella,
parc de l’orangerie,
jardim da Estrela,
Parc du Luxembourg,
Kyoto Gyoen,
Die Tiergarten,
Central Park,
King’s college campus,
Brown University campus,
Princeton,
San Francisco …
and my most missed,
Golden Gate Park with its perennial cherry blossoms —
The Planetarium on one side,
the Young Museum and
the Spreckles Temple of Music on the other,
I close my eyes.

And when I awake from that blissfully indeterminate state,
the first I always see is you … smiling;
my senses are acute: vibrant hues all around, purer sounds of rustling leaves, and I ask, “How long was I out?”
and you always say, “5 minutes.”