|
XXIV Sometimes, she’d bring blueberry pie to Andy as he painted, near his window. He worked up there all summer, often from memory. There’d be no prayers at her burial in 20 years. XXV One morning now, he saw, upon the stairs, dust had been crawled across before he came— Christina had made a trail across the floor as she had visited the tempera he painted. XXVI He had seen her as she crawled her grassy field toward the house. Andy often painted here, even after his own dad died, close to where her mother and father were buried.
|