Layers of a Painted Life

Layers of a Painted Life

Janet Taylor-Perry

Finalist, short story, Faulkner Wisdom Competition

This is my house, my paint, my handiwork.  Watching it dry lends a sense of pride and satisfaction. How many layers of change and sorrow does it cover? In time, will it flake away to show old wounds and hurts again? The house stands now shiny and new, brightened by a coat of paint.

The Mediterranean red screams, ''Free to be me!" At long last, I feel comfortable enough to make my barn-shaped house look the way I want it to look—damn the neighbors or any critics of my choice. And it looks awesome, neighbors concurring. It has taken sixteen years to get here, but here I stand.

The canary yellow coating on the old house before the red reflected the sunlight with glimmers of hope, the same anticipation for life my soul then felt, but sadly also the same color as my previous home that contained nothing but lies, like the white-washed sepulcher Jesus mentioned in the Bible.

What was this house before—a nauseating faded Pepto Bismol pink? John Cougar Mellencamp’s ''Little Pink Houses'' played through my mind as I scraped the sickening color away. The scraping made my soul raw as if peeling the layers of abuse away could make way for fresh baby skin. The new could not be applied until the old was stripped away. The healing balm slowly dried. My house and I had a new hide.

Before the pink was dull, drab gray, evidence of years of neglect and not being wanted. The wood so ready for any kind of attention soaked even the ugliness of pink into its pores. My life, too, so alone and abandoned was willing to accept even ugliness to not be ignored. The weathered gray beneath the putrid beige-pink reminds me of the deep bruising on skin and heart. After a while, even the new ugly pink skin flaked away to show the true nature, all the sadness contained beneath.

Surprisingly below the weathered, beaten gray, a few streaks of fresh green remained. The color was one of new life, of spring, of love. I once believed in those things. Like the original color on this old house, those dreams are buried beneath layers of wounds and bandages of paint.

As spots dried on the yellow, it became clear a second coat was needed. Some faint ugliness still shined through. I picked up my brush and began again. One more coat hid the stains and cracked wood and gave the illusion of something bright and happy. One more pep talk, one more counseling session, one more declaration of self-worth was needed to cover the gashes and splinters of my broken spirit.

Stepping away showed the glow once more. Yes, this color was cheerful. Watching it dry to a high sheen let me think.  I am so like this old house. It is covered in layers of years, time, and change. I am layer upon layer of life.

The green gave way to love, marriage, a family. The newness was so short-lived. The novelty cracked quickly as the evil gray took root.

How long did that dreariness remain, choking the life from the vessel? Scraping the paint, the gray took the longest to remove. It was stubborn and clung to the old house with a vengeance.

Eventually the gray gave way to welcome new paint. I, too, broke free, but not without serious damage done to body, mind, and soul. The body heals, but the psyche retains the scars, the stains. I hold no certainty that part will ever heal completely.

The new tender skin was raw. The pink did not handle the ravages of weather well. It had to be reapplied, more than once. Still, some of the old came through, darkening areas. The same is true for my heart. So many areas affected by the strain do not take new paint easily. Shattered dreams, wounded hearts, broken toys, lost trust required many holes to be filled with putty and much scraping to remove roughness.

For a long period, the new skin held. Taking a chance broke the scabs, and the wounds reappeared. Pitted areas on the sides of the wood show hail damage. The old house withstood the challenge. Yet, it begged for something fresh, something new. It can stand alone. Its foundation is firm. The color upon it will reflect the contents.

Yes, sunshine yellow is what I first choose. The color, like daffodils, spoke of a new beginning. I could see the heads of the flowers dance in the reflecting shimmer. I breathed, ''Old things are passed away. Behold, all things have become new."

A light touch said the paint was still tacky. I waited a little longer. Not quite cured, the color coat was tender to the touch like certain topics. Some things still hurt to talk about—probably always will. The wounds were deep. It has taken a lot of putty to fill in the cracks and chinks. The wood was the same.

A deep sigh expressed the need to move forward. I can no longer dwell on what was. I looked at the fresh coat and see what could be. The house stands as assurance. Life goes on. The strong endure. Like this old house, I am strong. I will persevere. I will survive.

It took all day, but the paint dried. The bronze blaze from the setting sun cast a golden gleam onto the new surface. The boards appeared to be filigree. The smell was fresh. None of the sadness showed. I am this old house. This old house is I. As long as it stands, new paint can correct its faults. As long as I stand, my imperfections can be rectified.

The paint was dry, but it felt slick to the touch. For a while, the elements slid off. No rain, no hail, no frost stuck. I am one with this structure. The paint upon my soul was fresh and new. The insults hurled slid away. Nothing hurt me, or so I thought. I had a fresh coating. I, like my home, was shiny and new. I had new skin, a new coat.

I am no longer fresh and green; innocence has evaporated. The bruises have healed. The weathered tarnish is no longer visible. The putrid pink, soft new baby pink, skin has toughened. It was covered in gold. Happiness and contentment reflected in the buttercup yellow. New blooms of jonquils offered latest hope.

The paint was dry. My new skin had grown thick. Still, new becomes old. And more hurts, some deeper than the old piled upon my house and me. The pelting storms required a new roof. A new roof needed a new color. I took a bold leap. I stepped out and followed my dreams, my heart. The house is now red, like its barn shape requires. I am not naïve enough to believe again that the paint will last and not need to be touched up. It will require maintenance. I will require maintenance. My house will exist one day at a time, as will I. But change will come for both of us. The difference is…I anticipate change as a challenge to continue to grow. I will continue to exist. Someday, I will be gone. Will this old house still stand? Perhaps. Its foundation is firm, and its inside has been filled with love. Even after I am no more, I can rest assured I have left a legacy of love—It filled my old house.