Brooklyn Bridge
A perfect spring evening. I sat on a bench beside the East River and watched the light change on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Everything was smooth and calm. Glide of slow boats on the river. Hum of cars on the overpass above me. Light lap of waves against wood piles. I tried to paint it like that.
A dozen people stopped to say hello, to linger by the bridge. Everyone was happy to be out in that evening air. A man and a woman paused for a closer look at my page. "You got it sculpted to a tee!" he told me. "I WISH New York water was blue."
I talked on the phone with my mother. I sent her a photo when I finished painting. "You know, you've really gotten better," she said. She's followed my career closely since I was two years old. I considered that progress.
I walked to Pier 11 and waited for the ferry to take me home. It was dark by the time I got on the boat. We left the dock and glided under the bridge, the lights of the city reflecting on the dark water.