as i sit at the top of the stairwell near the door ajar to tristan's room, waiting for him to drop off into the nether, i look around me from this strange angle. there are relics on the walls. a mask of the golden nymph tashi fashioned and then donned in her fourth grade play. pop paintings by steve keene i collected from a lively exhibit at the 2nd street gallery. and the recent acquisition from my mother: a huge painting of me looking serious and dour at age three.
as i sit here looking at these time stamps, waiting for one child to drop off into sleep while the other bathes just a couple of yards away, i find myself wondering at what hangs on the walls. the vibrancy of the mediums: paper mache, bright tissue paper on white canvas, pigment, sparkles, feathers, wood. the significance of each piece: a king midas play i barely remember where my daughter portrays the radiant essence of gold. music that make echo certain passages of my co-existence with dan. driving to big sur on our first road trip while neil young croons. going into labor with tashi while sitting in our car listening to sonic youth tear into some cosmic feedback. my early childhood in cyprus, the solitude.
and then while i'm feeling this large feeling of love and relief and bittersweet nostalgia, tristan addresses me from his still wakeful state, tells me of lights passing by his window, speculates on what they were, that they may have been will-o-the-wisps, red ones. his words combine with his pre-k tempo, and i am dazzled. four year old poetry, so profound and fleeting in its frequency, filling this moment with pure light.
this moment that i am grateful for. my children. their sounds. their art. my past. my partner's. our path.