You’re always such a disappointment, Augustus. Couldn’t you have at least gotten orange tomatoes?”
He laughed, and we ate our sandwiches in silence, watching the kids play on the sculpture.
I couldn’t very well ask him about it, so I just sat there surrounded by Dutchness, feeling awkward and hopeful.
In the distance, soaked in the unblemished sunlight so rare and precious in our hometown,
a gaggle of kids made a skeleton into a playground, jumping back and forth among the prosthetic bones.
Two things I love about this sculpture,” Augustus said. He was holding the unlit cigarette between his fingers,
flicking at it as if to get rid of the ash. He placed it back in his mouth.
First, the bones are just far enough apart that if you’re a kid, you cannot resist the urge to jump between them.
Like, you just have to jump from rib cage to skull. Which means that, second, the sculpture essentially forces children to play on bones.
The symbolic resonances are endless, Hazel Grace.” “You do love symbols,” I said,
hoping to steer the conversation back toward the many symbols of the Netherlands at our picnic.
Right, about that. You are probably wondering why you are eating a bad cheese sandwich and drinking orange juice
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