Posted by Toph on May 17, 2006, at 10:33:27
Last weekend my daughter looked breautiful trying on her maid of honor dress. Tonight my son flies in from Colorado for the big event Saturday. I'm not invited, of course, and I don't care much having moved on with my life. But I find myself at work thinking about this anyway. My first wife gets married Saturday. I'm happy for her, I guess. It's strange to me how old wounds fester even when they are supposed to be healed and forgotten.
Anyway, I wrote this here about two years ago. I hope you don't mind that I share it again...
COAT OF ARMORTruth be told, we stole the house. It had been a casualty of a bitter divorce, neglected to the point that it became affordable for a young couple like us. Marie couldn't wait to start painting so as to make it our own. She attempted to cover the residue of unhappiness the previous couple had left behind. We bought a house that we could barely afford so that all of the children in our newly blended family would have their own rooms. Boundaries are important in this type of arrangement. Part of reviving a silent house is infusing it with new life. Marie and I almost seemed to relish the tedious task of transforming the house into a home. I have a vivid memory of being precariously perched atop the ladder painting the high ceiling above the stairs. Marie held the pan so I could keep one hand safely on a rung as I loaded up the roller.
"You sure are sloppy," she said to me playfully. I could feel a dampness on my back that must have come from too much paint applied to the ceiling.
"It's not too late to marry a real painter," I retorted climbing down to check the damage to my old sweatshirt.
Standing contorted before the vanity I could read in the mirror the word "BUM" hastily painted on my back. I darted into the hallway scooping up Marie like a doll and threw her squealing on to the bed. We tore each other's clothes off as if they were on fire…
Later, in the morning light, I laughed when I noticed our naked bodies tattooed with latex fingerprints. On the nightstand laid Marie's engagement ring that she had carefully removed before painting. She would certainly have noticed even the smallest speck of paint as she could frequently be found admiring how the band ornamented her finger.
~~~
Ten years later, the kids are all off to college, so Marie insists that we paint the walls again. This impulse seems more her way of somehow encapsulating all the bitterness that the walls have endured in recent years than an effort at home improvement. The hallway now seems crowded for two painters. I juggle the pan and the roller trying not to break my neck as Marie impatiently slathers paint on to the wall trim beneath me. I feel a familiar wetness on my back, so I clamber eagerly down the rungs arriving at the vanity. My reflection reveals a large spot of paint that has fallen from a carelessly overloaded roller.
I call to Marie, "Honey, do you remember when…?"
Irritated, she interjects, "You know, I have better things to do than paint tonight."The next morning I dress and ritualistically lean over to kiss my wife on the forehead. When she sleepily waves off my advance with her hand, I notice that the stone on her ring is nearly obscured by paint from last night's labor. It becomes apparent to me heading into the hall that the walls will need a second coat.
~~~
Another decade passes and I find myself at the door to the house. Juggling presents I carefully ring the doorbell with my elbow when independently opening the door proves impossible. My magnificently pregnant daughter warmly greets me before waddling back upstairs to her husband. In the living room Marie is adjusting an ornament that she has decided is aesthetically misplaced. I am struck by how beautiful she looks washed in the warm glow of the illuminated tree. Quietly I approach to steal a kiss that she deftly deflects to her cheek. I am instructed to summons the children for the gift opening.
At the base of the stairs I yell upwards that it is time to assemble. Despite living outside of the house since the divorce it feels like a natural act to be collecting the kids at this spot. The walls are a conspicuously opaque crimson. As my grown children descend the stairs in a pace noticeably slower than I remember, there is a sad realization that I am a guest in his house, my first house, the only home I would ever own. At one time children raced up and down these stairs, a time when I had intimately known every inch of these painted walls that seem so utterly unrecognizable to me now.~~~
poster:Toph
thread:645130
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20060331/msgs/645130.html