Tangled Threads
This painting isn’t from the same moment, nor does it depict the same spot, but here I’ll tell you of light after the storm passed. It changed by the minute. From maroon to pink to yellow to orange. And then, just like that, it was gone. “Like a light switch!” Zak yelled, his voice bouncing off the stone walls. The grey fell over us once more, but we continued to grope for the first drop of chestnuts in the too long grass. Wet, tangled threads held them close to the earth, and we got dirt under our nails. There were many, after the storm, so I taught Yara how to carry them in the skirt of her dress.
