I’m sitting in my office looking from one of Aunt Mirl’s paintings to the other. On my left is a long road parting a forest. The road continues into a bright light that might be sunset or sunrise. On my right is a cabin surrounded by snow. The sky is gray and I know it is a cold day. But the yellow light in the window tells me a fire is going in the fireplace and maybe there’s a pot of soup hanging from the spit.