She called it Fall even after living in the UK for many years.
Autumn sounded wrong.
Fall had deserted the countryside and made way for bare trees and an oppressive greyness that invaded all her senses.
Always happy and smiling during the other seasons, Winter laid heavily on her shoulders and sucked all the life out of her.
The sun was obscured for weeks on end and a damp shroud sucked the life from her, making each day a struggle.
Her gait was impaired and her back arched painfully as she navigated each depressing day.
Then suddenly, and it happened every year, it would change and a transformation would occur as if by magic.
A spark would ignite deep within her and she would retreat to her studio.
There she would take canvas, brushes and warm colours, turn on the heater, wrap a warm shawl around her shoulders and armed with comforting hot chocolate she’d put brushes to canvas and paint the most extraordinary paintings.
One of her favourite scenes was the warm orange sunset over a bleak minimal countryside.
If you look closely you might see the signature kiss-curl of her daughter Aurora.
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Today’s Sunday Photo Fiction was written somewhere between Vigo and Lisbon.