My Sardinian Summer by Michaël Uras

“Papa watched over his mural all through the night. He was wary of jealous neighbours, of course, but also of rain which could prove particularly aggressive in June, and could destroy a painting. It did, in fact, rain: a deluge that was untimely for our family but welcome to those who’d been hoping for some water. The wind also joined in on the fun. We spent the night holding up a big tarpaulin to protect the fresco. It was impossible to make conversation. All we could do was cling to that protection. Two small men against the elements. I knew Turner had been tied to a ship’s mast to paint Snow Storm. Papa, Turner and I, united for a work of art. It was a pleasing parallel, except the Turner was exhibited worldwide, whilst my father’s art would never even reach the end of the street.”

“Grandma just wouldn’t die. I knew I was going to look like the lowest of the low for saying so, but grandma wouldn’t die. We were in an awkward situation. Like a man on a platform waiting for the train taking away his sweetheart to leave. But the train did leave. To pass time, the lovers might wave and smile, blow kisses, even risk pulling funny faces. Then it would get embarrassing. Because the train needs to leave for life on the platform to carry on, but grandma wouldn’t die.”


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