Stanley placed them on the roof, cluttered against the red tiles though they were almost too many to fit the view of life he longed for: two women, a father, saint, the boy he once was, hens and geese, all crowded in to be fed, to be painted, all that he recalled, the waft from the open dressing gown, Patricia positioned high on the parapet, Hilda overpainted with a saint, each picture hot in the midday sun and never the question either/or as he fleshed them out, but how best to say all that life is.