In the room there are needles, basins and plastic tubing, women with dark bruised veins, men whose skin has yellowed. Some people doze, chemicals dripping into their veins. Others try reading papers. One woman asks the nurse: "Please turn me so I can look out the window," and as she is turned, observes: "Look, it's Monet." A thin lavender-grey fog has washed across the horizon, the river and the far shore. Lines of winter trees and buildings are tinted more deeply, more purple, and their reflections in the water oscillate with strokes of violet and pearl grey. Memory restores to me haystacks, poplars, and the gardens at Giverny. I am buoyed to the surface by water lilies, and float lightly between blue-green leaves.
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Copyright ©2003 by Gail Golden