The pile was getting too high. Messy.
It was time to sort.
So I sat in silence and began. This-goes-here, that-goes-there.
In the middle of the pile, I found it. Simple brushstrokes. Raw line and color. Her painting asked nothing of me. I simply held it in my hands and looked. And looked.
This is my Thanksgiving, I thought. And in that moment, I did not feel the need to explain why. So I shall not, now, try.
Fall Abstract, by Sara, 12. Used with permission.
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