The Weight of Color

We carry the summer inside us like a stone. It is a heavy, warm thing, kept against the cold that inevitably returns. In the north, we learn early that light is a visitor, not a resident. It arrives with a promise, stays for a season, and then retreats, leaving the walls to hold the memory of what was once bright. We paint our houses in defiance of the gray. We choose reds, yellows, blues—not because we are happy, but because we need to see where the world ends and the sky begins. It is a quiet act of survival. To stand before a wall of color is to acknowledge that the darkness is waiting, and that for now, it has been held at bay. We look at these facades and we see ourselves: thin layers of paint over wood, standing against the wind. What happens to the color when the sun finally turns its back?

Sena Sasani has captured this fleeting warmth in the image titled Keys for the Sunshine. It reminds me that even in the deepest winter, we can still recall the heat of a wall against our palms. Does the light stay with you when you close your eyes?