Growing up, there was a print of Il Ponte Di Asnieres in our house. It fascinated me. The colors were so stark and yellow. It wasn’t unlike the color of the dust in the rural area where we lived. For years I thought the image in the painting was the place my parents came from.

Why did my parents choose that picture to bring with them? They had so little, they were allowed to take so few things. The monogrammed linens I understood. The silver candlestick I would have taken, too. But why that image? I never knew. But for years I wondered where that train was heading.

Often, I wonder where my parents got their strength, to start over in a strange land well into middle age. I wonder what it would have been like to grow up as someone else’s daughter, in a house that had a television. What would it have been like to have watched The Mickey Mouse Club? To have eaten Twinkies before the age of 20? But then again, that strict, rigid upbringing may have been exactly what I needed to become a writer.

If Vincent Van Gogh had lived a life of ease, of wealth, of comfort, would his paintings  have been as rich?  Would his brother have been as supportive? There is no time machine to show alternative lives. Or alternative paintings. We have the memories of Van Gogh’s tortured life and the glory of the paintings.