Commentary: Paint It Again, Sam

By T.L. Sherwood

Buffalo, NY – We stopped scraping the paint when the angel emerged. From my warm, apricot scented bubble bath, I remember how the hummingbird, the dove, and even a wren bore themselves out from the multiple layers of latex and enamel paint before the angel appeared. The frame around this window which looks out over Eighteen Mile creek is the last part of the bathroom that remains unfinished. The walls are a vibrant guava jam that compliments the smart peach curtains and oak countertop. You can't help but feel fresh and clean and bright in this room, no matter what sort of grime you're scrubbing off. When the spring comes and melts the snow or when we have torrential rains like we did in August, looking out this window is often scary when you see how close the waters pass by.

My husband built this house. It began to breathe with splashed colors and wallpaper applied by his first wife and her mother. Those walls were partially covered by his live-in girlfriend with her tepid beige and eggshell choices for the addition. Now, from the exposed rafters down, it's inhaling the deep hues I select.

Upstairs, our many windowed bedroom is as comforting as hot cocoa with melted mini-marshmallows swirled atop. The home office is the color of the sea with sections sponged over with a metallic blue that reflects the sun like waves do. The library downstairs sobers with its plethora of books on mocha shelves set against banker green walls. The kitchen warms with its deep reds, coppers and browns. The wall that runs from the kitchen through the living room to the stairs sports a jaunty fake brick paneling. This expands our hearth when our wood stove is not in use. Throughout it all, oak and maple wood flooring glistens underfoot with many coats of polyurethane in the unused corners but is muffled with dull worn spots where everyone walks.

These textures and colors are as temporary as the radio programs I listen to during the day. Or the scent of freshly cut flowers gracing our window sills in cut glass vases. Our tables have seen revolving rounds of military men and peace seekers alike in dogged debate and rare agreement. Sips of beer, wine, coffee and tea have been drunk. Snacks and meals have been shared with so many. It's all been so beautiful; everything fades through happenstance and selective memory.

I may not be his final wife. He may not live forever. The colors may change through fashion. Two hundred years ago, I imagine a surveyor pitched his lonely tent upon this ground while serving as an apprentice for the Holland Land Company. If global warming prevails, in one year or sixty, this area might be nothing more than a minor blimp of a sandbar in the creek I can see through the windows.

It's autumn now and the sun is setting. Photographs on the bathroom wall reflect from the mirror to the window. These pictures of the people in our lives, some living, some gone, are reversed in the glass. As I begin to towel off, I admire again those unexpected grey wings and the tarnished halo of our temporary angel. I hope she can keep the flood waters at bay. I'd like to think that's why she was sent here.

istener-Commentator T.L. Sherwood is co-founder of the Ugly Baby Writer's Group and is actively involved with the Springville Center for the Arts.

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