A quick sketch this afternoon of the peach-orange rose in the garden. A blackbird hopped into view from the flower bed. Someone was stirring the compost bin behind the apple tree. The sun cast long shadows across the grass. I'm reading 'The Lacuna' by Barbara Kingsolver - a book about lost or half-seen stories, the undercurrents of history. It feels a bit like now - lives on hold: "A blank space on a form, the missing page, a void, a hole in your knowledge of someone - it's still some real thing. You don't get to fill it in with whatever you want." (pp349-350) |