February Sun

There are some days where everything combines to create a perfect moment--a rare moment that feels like a deep breath, a pause from the everyday clutter and noise of demanding to-do lists and mundane domestic duties. This Saturday, on a blue-skied February afternoon, the ground still bright with crusted snow drifts, I had one of those moments. Madi and I drove to DC to explore the National Museum of Art. The outing was planned in celebration of our dual February birthdays and counted as our mother-daughter-date for the month. We walked hand-in-hand from the parking garage to the museum, chatting through our shivers.

As I have with each preceding visit to the museum, when I entered those palatial doors, climbed the marble staircase, and strained my neck to stare at the coffered ceiling, I was in awe--by the scale, by the grandness, and by the reverence.

With unhurried steps, we walked from room to room, and with hushed voices, we talked about the paintings. We lingered at the four corners of the small room that houses the "stage of life" paintings. We pressed with the crowds through the impressionists gallery. We discovered a new gem amongst the still-lifes: a small oil painting of humming birds in mid-flight, their feathers glistening. We made the necessary pilgrimage to visit Vermeer (which I was surprised to find had been moved to the other end of the room!). And then we found a new favorite...

In the basement, in a quiet room, far from the impressionists and the Degas sculptures, we found a girl reading. And on her cheek, a tear--so subtle, we would have missed it, if we hadn't read the inscription.

And we stopped. Together. While the February sun spilled from the window, warming the reading girl's shoulders.