Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“You want the roller or the brush?” she asked.
“The roller,” I said. “I want to see the yellow disappear.”
I dipped the nap of the roller into the tray, coating it evenly until the small ridges were filled with paint. I brought it to the wall, starting in the center and working my way outward in long, steady strokes.
The beige paint went on smooth, covering the old yellow and the grey plaster scars in one clean sweep. With every vertical stroke, a little more of my family’s presence was covered, buried beneath a clean, neutral layer of my own choosing.
“We should have enough left for the hallway,” Sarah said from the corner, where she was using a small brush to cut in around the light switches.
“We’ll do the hallway tomorrow,” I said. “Today is just the living room and the front door.”
“The door?” she asked.
“The lock,” I said. “I have the new brass one in the kitchen.”
She looked at me, her brush dripping a single drop of beige paint onto the newspaper we had laid over the floor. “The old one was fine once we got it open.”
