Saturday, October 8, 8:00 PM. Amy.

We got out today, got away from the farm. I, for one, have been going stir crazy being at the house all day every day. I needed a change of scene. With Claire and Brewer fully recovered, I suggested—nay, demanded—that we go on a family outing.

We took the kids to the Kimbell.

I don’t think anyone else was thrilled about that plan. But I needed to see art. Beauty. Culture. Civilization. Liberality in the old sense: creation without utility. We’re less than an hour from a world-class museum. Admission is free. There won’t be any crowds. Why not take the family?

We had an interesting and strange experience. It was emotionally healthy, I think, but complicated; it’s going to take time for us to process.

The ride there was the first time we’d all gone together to the city in a month. When we started out, driving through the country, the kids were exuberant and engaged, constantly pointing out things to look at through the windows. Brewer showed us where he hit the cow. Once we got onto the freeway the mood turned somber. There’s something haunting about the city now. All that open road, all those buildings, all those signs of human life but not a soul to see, not a drop to drink.

Brewer looked relaxed. He’s driven out more than the rest of us and gotten used to it. I could tell he was enjoying going out together as a family, doing something we didn’t have to do just to do it, just to be together. He didn’t say much, as usual, but when he did I thought once or twice he almost sounded choked up. I think it was joy.

We got lost on the way to the Culture District. We use paper maps now and I’m not the best at navigating with them. We ended up near the Fort Worth Zoo. Claire and Trevor wanted to go in, but Brewer and I decided that was not a good idea. Either the animals would be dead, which would be depressing, or they’d be alive, which would be dangerous. Brewer was curious. He made noises about coming back with Garrett and checking it out. That’s an idea I hope he forgets.

Once we reached the Kimbell there was the matter of getting inside. I thought this would be tricky due to the extra security measures a museum is bound to employ. But Brewer and Garrett have become disturbingly deft at breaking into things. The speed with which they got in was breathtaking, not to mention a bit alarming for a mother to see in her own child. They exchanged a few words. Brewer tossed Garrett a large crowbar, then used some giant metal pincers to crack off a chain. Garrett pried open the door with a “pop.” No alarms, no flashing lights. We simply filed in.

It was dark inside the museum but we’d brought some lights along. It was damp, too: humid, more than it should be if the paintings are to last. It was absolutely silent except for our footsteps or our breaths or the occasional whisper of our clothes. We whispered too, though no one was there for us to disturb, and the whispers echoed back to us as if the paintings were speaking.

Despite the weirdness, it was an artistic experience, the kind I’d hoped my children could receive.

They were mystified by the Mondrian.

We all puzzled silently over Picasso’s Nude Combing Her Hair for a few minutes. Garrett broke the silence by simply replying, as if to the nude herself, “Well…congratulations.” The rest of us giggled without exactly knowing why.

The portrait of May Sartoris was a big hit, as was the one with the Spanish man (also in black and red) whose name I can’t remember now, by Rodriguez I think. The Cheat by La Tour is one of my favorites, and the Turner.

The art did what it needed to do. It enabled me to make contact with living, thinking, feeling human beings. Dead living, thinking, feeling human beings, but ones alive enough to leave us living impressions. And it enabled the kids to remember that there’s more to life than cows and propane and swimming pools and kittens.

I mentioned aloud to the family that I was afraid the art wouldn’t last with all that moisture in the air. Garrett suggested we take some of the paintings home with us. “They’re not doing anyone any good here,” he observed. Of course he’s right.

But in the end I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t picture myself walking out of a museum with a Cézanne under my arm and hanging it up above the easy chair at home. I would feel too guilty. Every time I’d see it I’d be embarrassed, like I needed to cover it up.

There’s a small part of me that still thinks all this—the disappearance of humanity, the dormancy of civilization—is still going to blow over. A day or two from now we’ll hear tanks rumbling down the road. “Everything okay here, Ma’am?” a crisp American soldier will ask. The cavalry will have arrived. The United States government will be back in Texas to show us where all our countrymen are and to reestablish order. And they’ll be wanting their paintings back.

But it’s not true, is it?

So we took home no paintings. I have a feeling I’ll get over it. It doesn’t make sense to leave all that art there for mildew to devour when we could at least store them safely. But they’re not in imminent danger. And I’m just not ready quite yet.