There is a man who knows how air is huge like wonder. He can cup it, carry it to his canvas, and open a full world floating over stone. Sudden images of edges convince me that impossible means looking in the wrong direction. Before he ever painted, his mother shone him secrets from her eyes, those boundless gentle prisms-- all past her garden, all our lives. In them no rushing, no leaving, no drift; just the pure far center of her seeing. Tonight mice rustle through his studio, rummage behind paper bags, cans and tubes of oils, brushing floor dust into trails that tell they trust his walls and not his lights. He fixes potatoes and cabbage in the electric skillet, and shows me mustard, two plates, and sour cream. I speak in spacious words and listen for the mice, while he imagines ways to paint his world in single colors. We will not reach each other past all this air. His mother's eyes didn't say how sharing delves a deepness calling empty when it's gone.
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