Pedestal

Hand in hand we haunt the museum, visiting Manet, Degas, Gauguin; wandering from paintings to sculpture; giggling like embarrassed adolescents at the nudes poised on pedestals.

“Don’t put me on a pedestal,” you said. “I won’t,” I responded. “Pedestals are for perfection,” you added, “and I’m not perfect.”

“No one is perfect,” I replied. “Until someone loves them.”

Hmm, I think maybe I’ll put you up on that pedestal after all.