We drove the big heavy truck to our new empty house.
Stepping inside we looked around and saw rooms for two stories that were white as can be. The word trepidation came to mind.
Then your mom (that’s me) anxiously decided to fill the white walls with color.
“What would make this house my home?” I asked myself.
When the idea came, my heart felt like a sun ray.
Out came the brushes, out came the paint. On the walls went the colors. “Beautiful!”
He came home (your dad) to find the walls awash with asplosh.
So we took the brushes and painted it white again. And I suppose that would be the day I died.
But of course that last part about painting isn’t true. All the walls are still white, but in my head I’ve already painted them. It was a beautiful idea for a wall, and having it look like a painting by Mondrian was unique and exciting. So with heart palpitating and clammy hands, I tried to explain, but my words never seem like enough when I’m saying them. His eyes widened and brow furrowed downward, you know, and I guess that’s when I really died.