frosted like cookies
He paints his roof every December, but no one ever sees it actually being painted. One chilly night the sun sets on shingles faded down to almost-bare wood, and the next morning it rises over a rainbow. A shock of color amongst the leafless trees.
They say he must hire painters, since he’s too old to manage it himself. If there are such things as nocturnal roof painters.
He never says how it’s done. He just smiles and offers any inquiring neighbors brightly frosted sugar cookies.
Each year it’s different. Puzzle pieces or patchwork or looping swirls, but always vibrant and cheerful.
Some people call it an eyesore, but I think it’s nice to see something so warm as the cold settles in.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.