–the opening paragraphs–
Coming out of my bedroom, I pause in the hallway, captivated by the picture ahead of me. Framed by the white door molding, Mark, whom I heard arrive a little while ago, sits on the floor in front of the TV in jeans and a dark green shirt. Caroline, with a yellow bow in her hair, reclines in his lap. Fat little Elizabeth, in red overalls, stands behind him, the same height as his head, running her hands through his thick red hair. The picture seems complete, and yet I’m not in it. Of course, I’m not; I’m the viewer, the observer, the spectator. I tell myself that’s important. All pictures, and paintings, need viewers—to appreciate and to go in search of what lies before them.
The buildings of downtown Atlanta reach into the evening sky. Their metallic surfaces shimmer above me. It’s Saturday, and most are probably empty. Nevertheless there they stand. Impressive monuments. Vacant shells. The road curves to the left. Overpasses take the place of the sky. Now the buildings are on my right. The sun, on its way down behind them, illuminates their silver color. Silver like my new Yukon. A ’97. With cup holders and a CD player. The kids were so excited about the CD player.
