I put down the sheets, swept in corners that hadn't been swept since I moved in, and with ruthless efficiency began to prime the dark brown pieces. My sister, Megs, and I had gotten the primer when she last visited Seattle, and it was super duper grippy, perfect for the slightly slick plywood construction. I was off, painting my heart out as quickly as humanly possible. There was no room in my head for anything except Glidden Gripper and rollers and edging, and maybe - perhaps - that was the point.
I did not make my ridiculous time schedule, leaving my house a bit closer to 6 than I would have liked. I had a bit too much primer on me - globs on my hands and in my hair - and a bit too little on some patches of the furniture, but there I was. I wrapped up and with no time to think, left for the beach. (I decided to wear a sweater to said beach, simply because I was beyond freezing last time I was there. Only this time it was really nice and I was sweating buckets. Fucking grief; clouds a girl's head right up).
I was out, enjoying a birthday BBQ when my mom called. Gram had passed.
Tears. Shit-ton of the tears.
Thank God the dressers still needed another coat. They were there when I got home, practically begging me to go at it. I held off, as I had drank a couple of beers (I hear beers and paintbrushes are not a good combination), and I was painting in the same room we were sleeping (I hear VOC fumes and lungs are also not a good combination). I successfully did not paint until 10AM the next morning, at which point I attacked.
My god, Heavy Cream is gorgeous. Thank goodness.
Isn't it lovely, my friends? It looks peaceful. It looks light and soft. There's nothing like death to make one feel helpless and there is nothing like a can of paint to make one feel somewhat... well, better? More in control perhaps? Thankfully distracted? I can't name what exactly it gave me, but it did stop the tears for a bit. Creating something felt good. Creating something felt needed.
At any rate, whatever I am trying to say, I finished the dresser & shelf. They even were almost dry by the time my tears had stopped and our party was about to begin. I felt better once they were done, and I was surrounded by friends who were ooohhh-ing and ahhh-ing over them and asking very kindly how I was doing as we ate brownies, drank gin and tonics, and watch fireworks from the roof.
In the end, I realized that sometimes life hands me things I don't know quite what to do with. In those moments - in this moment - I did the only thing sounded right, to paint a dresser, and I still cannot explain why I needed to. But my heart feels better, my bedroom feels warmer, and somehow that seems perfect answer. And, well, that's all I got.