AFTER STANDING IN LINE FOR HALF AN HOUR FOR THE
VAN GOGH RETROSPECTIVE AT L'ORANGERIE
my father's brother who died before he was twenty
spent the last year of his life
sitting on a sidewalk drawing laborers coming or going from work
his home was near a factory somewhere in the North
his flying pencil sketched
fresh faces and gray bodies
quick steps and laughter
the joy of living suddenly loose
after the long confinement of the factory
consumed by tuberculosis no one required him now to do anything useful
as his cough became more frequent and his body shrank his eyes sparkling from fever
captured movements and colors with ever greater clarity and the drawings
piled up
no one knows what became of them there was a wardrobe full
after seeing the huge show of Van Gogh's work carefully assembled
and gazed upon with awe
as the miracle-working relics of the saints were gazed upon in the Middle Ages
I think it doesn't matter that his drawings were lost
has anyone ever been happier than my father's brother?