This piece made me cry.

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.