House Dinners

IMG_2120She apologies for it sometimes. The baby. It’s nearly midnight and upon approaching the blue gate—the last house on the hill—voices begin to hush. By the time the final foot has cleared the uneven cobblestones the silence is absolute.

All that exists is the clear blue mountains and the echoes of crickets.

Up on the deck an Artistmother (or is it Motherartist) sips at something. She emits butter light, so thick and yellow that for a moment she can’t see us, huddled right outside her pool. We dip our toes in—

“You guys don’t need to be quiet! The baby’s fine! I’m so sorry people always feel the need to be hushed!”


A middle school band is practicing in the dark. Or at least that’s what it sounds like. The dust clears, the restaurant returns to normal. Almost. A child is missing. Found, alive, and now crying. Sobbing, really, because somehow she was responsible for an avalanche of dishes.

The sobs persist throughout the rest of dinner.


Here, everybody is a person. An artist, yes, but more importantly, a person. We are allowed to make relationships, families. The craft does not preclude the life.

Because, ultimately, the life informs the craft. Becomes the craft. Is the craft.

Here, our babies don’t distract from art. They are our art.

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