The crappiness isn’t fully apparent, but the trim around Noemi’s flowers was Paulson’s contribution to the cause.

He does this for me sometimes—rips apart a thrift-store frame, saws off the excess, squirts glue, and wraps, tightly, around the reduced frame’s perimeter, a length of ratty string from his collection, which hopefully won’t pop off before the glue has dried and cause his construction to collapse like Samson’s temple.

This latest effort, once the gunk hardened, I picked up the frame and peered. Uh-oh. I yelled out the door to Paulson in the berry patch. The one corner, I could see daylight where the angled ends were supposed to meet.

He yelled back, “We could probably break the glue and start again.”

No.

What I held in my hands was enough. Better than good, coming from his, toughened by the years and the sun, and faithful. When devotion is made manifest—whether it’s a small act or large—maybe not much else matters.

(Art credit: Vittorio Maria Bigari, Bologna, 1692-1776)

 

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