By Lindz McLeod
The bench in the gallery looks comfortable—padded with plush velvet—but the girl’s parents don’t approve of lingering, especially in places like this. The walls are a deep, comforting garnet, like being tucked inside your mother’s cheek, squirrel-close; like being blown, dandelion feather-light, on the hearty strength of your father’s yawn. The family examine each artwork for a similar period of time—frequently a question is asked and answered on both sides—before they move on at a relentless, glacial pace...
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