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,
for the sake of physics,
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,
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,
Princeton,
San Francisco …
and 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.”