Every evening when the sun starts to set, my daughter picks me a bouquet of light.
The front door of our house is glass-paned, so she crouches in front of it, where lines of sun are drifting across the wood floor. She pretends to scoop something up — the motion very much like picking a flower — and then runs to me with empty hands.
“Here is some light,†she says, matter-of-factly.
“Open Your Hands, Here Is Some Lightâ€
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