Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

If Walls Could Talk

"We did not paint these walls
this awful color."
It was a diaper brown
tinged with green
(or maybe that was old glue)
My father stood facing the wall
after the initial discovery-shock of a week before, having done battle using the chosen weapons of a recycled spray bottle and putty knife.
That week's worth of
scraping away to the colors underneath...
"Ok, it looks ready.
Open the can"
I lift the lid to the plaster and hand him the smallest scraper I can find, then leave him to his work. At seven years old I've done my part, scraped paper to the baseboards, refilled spray bottles, lift supplies to the ladder. And called on one again to bring the Polaroid and record how these walls will actually speak to the next owner of this house on South Hardy...
"We did not paint these walls this awful color."

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