The paint had been sitting in the house for weeks. I kept inventing reasons not to start, missing the person who used to guide me, showing me the corners, the edges, the little tricks that make a wall look complete.
I don’t talk about this much.
It’s not just painting walls. It’s covering furniture, sanding rough spots, all the small, deliberate acts of guidance and care. I remember him showing me that you don’t have to buy actual trim to make something elegant. A little thought, a little patience, even ordinary wood could be transformed.
Starting is the hardest part. Each brushstroke, each measured line is a memory of someone I can no longer see except in my heart. He always knew exactly when to pause and order really good takeout. Now I stare at the clock, wondering when to take a break, wishing he could come and see how I’m doing.
If I’m honest, I still would have worried through half of it, how much it was all costing, whether we could really justify that big Italian meal with the garlic knots. He was generous to a fault, maddeningly so, and would have insisted on ordering extra food for everyone, even if they weren’t home, and probably the neighbors, too.
He saw me clearly: the worrier, the planner, the one counting receipts. I gave him an out so many times, but he kept picking me, he loved me right there in it. It’s such a gift to be seen without being fixed.
I keep going. I sand, I spackle, I mix the paint, I roll, and I step back to see the lines. The rhythm we shared hums inside me, guiding each motion in the quiet space. Slowly, the house feels lighter, calmer, more cared for.
For dinner, I make creamy mac and cheese from scratch. It’s an easy, rich meal, and I like to indulge on a dime when I can. He would have laughed as he quoted Holmes and Watson: "I don't deserve nice things." Then he would have said, "Oh, we're going" to Eddie's tomorrow night. Because he thought all of us deserved nice things, and he always found a way to get them.
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