“The Boating Party” By CASSATT
Looking directly into his eyes she feels the pull, ache of his hands on the oars, the pressure of yellow wood in his arch, the harsh tickle of his old wool cap black with chimney dust and sweat. A feathering of spray on her naked nape dries quickly in a refreshening breeze, she trembles slightly from the chill. She wishes he would pull the bunched jacket from his thick sweatered middle. His eyes reflect lapis from the lake. Her eyes, dark, water in the wind. The child’s legs rest heavily between her thighs, swinging, swinging with the boat’s motion. A tear snakes down her cheek and suddenly she wants to go home.