My father died in high summer. The sun had already baked the red Georgia clay into stretches of hard crust across much of the landscape. Tiny black gnats floated drunkenly around eyes and lips and ears. Slow. Persistent. Annoyingly elusive.
|Edvard Munch’s “Meeting”|
|Albert Bloch’s “Lied I”|
|Winslow Homer’s “Mending the Nets”|