Last night, at the house in which I grew up, the bedroom that was mine accepted me only as a stranger. It has been partially claimed by my mother and father, dozens of minor items lying about where I left them nearly five years ago.
I spent a few minutes looking at two paintings that haven't gotten two thoughts since. And then I peeked in the closet, to find more oils on canvas; some I knew would be there, more I had forgotten. None of them is younger than eight years.
Six works returned home with me.
