Tag Archives: and My Grandmother’s Hands

Metaphor, memory, and my grandmother’s hands

Gregory O’Gara New Jersey, US (Fall 2017)   Stir of Memories, 2017 Oil on canvas, private collection of Gregory O’Gara Sometimes when it rains, the droplets are barely perceptible. There is no fog or mist, no thunder, no presage. I sat outside looking upward. There was nothing discernable in the darkness of the sky except […]