Grace

Grace shook the door out of its worn frame and stepped outside the faded clapboard house. Raw wood and splinters showed through the chipped green paint from years of standing through scorching sun, wild winds, and pounding rain. She felt as lonely and tired as the house looked at that moment. In the silence, the wood floor creaked upstairs as Ed stepped barefoot out of bed and down the hall. His lopsided steps clunked heavily to the bathroom. Grace knew where Ed was just by listening to the house. The house spoke its own language. Doors stuck, kitchen cupboards squeaked, the screen door wined and slammed, the windows groaned when pushed up or down, the closets scraped half-moon impressions on the wood floors, and the trees brushed the window panes when the wind came from the west. A ruckus of clucking and fluttering from the chicken coop snapped Grace out of her reverie. "Time to toss them some grain," she thought. Reminding herself that life needs tending, caring, or it may all fall away. Despite all the work to be done, Grace remained still and stared at her house like an artist preparing a painting. She covered one eye, then the other, framing the house with her hands like a movie director. The sloping roof gave her pause, remembering when Ed and his father put the roof on the house after they became newlyweds. She imagined the two men clear as day, standing confidently on the steep roof seeming so capable as they hammered and hoisted beams on to the rooftop, their skin glistening with sweat, as the sun's heat reddened their necks. Their gruff voices carried through the yard like music when they spoke. While she worked in the kitchen, their absent-minded whistling was comforting to her in a way she could not explain. Her heart swelled, thinking about it. Ed was now older than his father was when they built the roof. His skin, wrinkled, sunburnt, and spotted and as weathered as the old house. Grace thought of the years between then and now, as the wind picked up her hair and blew it forward. As if propelled by the wind, Grace moved forward, too, with the same sudden momentum. She had an unstoppable urge to create, running breathlessly toward the barn, Grace gathered all the paint brushes and house paint she could carry in her arms. Time was slipping away! Their old rundown house had a story to tell, and she wanted everyone to see it! After all, it needed painting anyway. Grace began to paint a mural of her and Ed's life together. Once she started painting, she lost track of time. Their home was her Sistine Chapel. At the top of the house, Grace painted Ed and his father building the roof. On the front door, she painted their son and daughter playing on a tire swing. She painted every side of the house with a piece of their story, but she left one space open at the top of the chimney for eternity. Outside their bedroom window, she lovingly painted her and Ed sleeping under the quilt she sewed by hand during their first year together. At the back of the house, she painted a family tree of all the generations of their two families. Finally, at the bottom, she painted the chickens roaming the yard under the trees picking up worms between their beaks. Their home became a local landmark, but for Grace and Ed, it was the glue that held them and the house together. Every evening they stood in front of it, planning the next picture, framing it with their hands, smiling, remembering.

~kao