Sometimes trust sounds like an abstract word.
Sometimes trust feels like a palette and paint brush in your hand.
I was there when she painted them on the plain white walls. Pansy faces formed beneath her hand as the wall flared maroon, gold, green, navy blue, and deep purple.
On the day she wore baggy paint-stained clothes and held a paint brush in one arm and a palette in the other, I watched her work. Then I asked, "Can I help?"
She paused, perched on a tall chair spying over the kitchen balancing inches near the ceiling. Wisps of honey colored hair floated around and apron strings loosely dangled behind her back. She was in rhythm bringing her design to life when I interrupt, can I be apart of this, too?
I waited.
And then,
and then, she extended herself into my world, handing me her palette and brush.
And now, who grew more? The flowers or I?
And then,
and then, she extended herself into my world, handing me her palette and brush.
And now, who grew more? The flowers or I?
Paint tickles my nose. Now I am the one flying above, with the brush in my hand to forge colors onto the blank wall. My head bumped the dusty popcorn ceiling, rubbing white flecks into my hair and eyes, just like her.
“Don’t
press too hard- just dab.”
Yes, yes, it looks so easy.
Wait. . . wait. . . up close to the wall a nervous response splashes inside. I don't want to make a mistake- to ruin her wildflower field. The flower I dotted into place compared to the one she painted looks different. I wasn't the child who painted inside the lines and she knew it, too. That didn't stop her from giving her young girl the brush. I look at her flowers while she watches the beginning of mine. You can be apart of this, too. She gives instruction once more to guide my shaky arm. So there I go, rubbing the bristles in small pools of paint.
"Add touches of beauty and color wherever you go," she says.
"Add touches of beauty and color wherever you go," she says.
Flowers begin to take shape, brush by brush. Hours
later, a garden fenced the walls and pansies beamed between sprawling ivy. We revolve around to look at the masterpiece.
Sometimes trust smells like paint and dust.
Sometimes trust looks like a color speckled garden.
Sometimes trust smells like paint and dust.
Sometimes trust looks like a color speckled garden.
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