The bomb has just fallen, on an archaeological site, somewhere in the Middle East, right in the middle of a dig season. The bomb-blast flowers. The blow-back rocks a truck on its wheels, the explosion radiating death, injury, debris. Ruin upon ruin: the trauma of war visits an ancient city, perhaps a sacred temple or a domicile, destroying the peaceful pursuits of the present, along with the integrity of the past itself. The projectile whistles, leaving a trail.
The painting, the party: Both are vestiges of an important something now gone, reminders of a peace and wholeness lost. A loved one, once present and all-enlivening, is remembered in an off-hand remark or two. A clink of glass, an off-stage laugh; we party on.