The colours around the window swirl and mix in a kaleidoscope of history.
Here, a patch of blue, painted by an old man, making the house presentable for the funeral of his wife, their 40 years together now nothing but memories soaked in grief.
There, a smear of ochre in the rough strokes of a child, painting with the simple delight of youth and the hope of a life yet to be led.
In one corner the faded whitewash that covered a house first ringing with voices and laughter and the first flush of love.
And finally, the exposed stone, taken from the earth from which, they say, we are all born and will return.
But the window is painted every year, as fresh as the spring air, because windows are how the world looks in on your life, and you look out on it, and such things should never be allowed to fade.