Mother's Day

She sure looks as if she is rather pleased with the six week old infant. (That's me.) I didn't come easy; I'd arrived via Caesarean section. Martha was 39; they'd waited through the Depression, through my father's uncertain employment, through The War -- I was indeed a Boomer; many of my contemporaries' parents were much younger. 

She loved being a mother. I think she was rather good at it, possibly because she'd been through a lot and was fully matured when I came along. I loved her very much even when we didn't understand each other.

A stroll through the Sculpture Garden

 

I had heard there was a sculpture garden somewhere up in the Chilmark woods. Yesterday I found myself walking through it.

The gate came with some admonitions:

 

And there I was, walking paths among dozens of improbable denizens, large and small:

I encountered no living dragons, or other humans for that matter. This, still barren, early spring makes for a splendid moment to walk among some artist's fantasies.