Reflections on Painting the House

Reflections on Painting the House

A Story by YoruMoriarti
"

The music always reminds me of fireflies.

"
It was one of those days that made me long for nostalgia. Memories of summers past blew through my mind as the wind swept through the house at irregular, yet glorious intervals. Its quiet ferocity released spores of ancient dust into the air sending the motes to dance in the sun beams by the windows.
It could have been any summer. It could have been another day I walked to the park up the street to sit on the swings or ride my bike in a circle around a sprinkler that was never on. Yet somehow it was now, it was not then, although soon it would be and I had a feeling that in the future the nostalgia I felt during summer would be linked to the present I was living. So I tried to memorize the now. The way the trees shiver in the wind, our neighbors yelling and the tight dust mask I wore over my face.
I had spent most of my life in that house. I had seen the walls painted 4-5 times; seen my mother arduously tape and spackle every bump and bruise a trio of wild young’uns could manage. It was her way of finding perfection I think. I mean it still is her way.
But what now? I am the one who is painting. Not my folks. Instead of the cacophony of the chaos of my house I hear only the music my Phone plays off Pandora. The music always reminds me of fireflies. They are both staples of summer but good only for a short while before disappearing into broken memories of dancing with them at night.
Today’s music doesn’t match the nostalgia I feel for yesterday’s. In times past it would have been smooth jazz blasting through the speakers, the neighbors kids (now mothers in their own rights) would listen to pop whilst the other family next door played the same collection of tired records they do while barbecuing on days like today. These noises would gather and rise streaming in a most unglorified manner through the open window at the back of the house to meld into the music of my memories. That old car alarm next door would eventually go off and in the distance an ice cream truck would slowly whine its way through the neighborhood. And just as it was then it will skip our house for I have never bought or had any from one.
It makes me wonder if things ever change. I suppose they do. They must. I mean I paint the house now. Not my parents, they help but I paint. But the process, the process remains the same to this day. We want it to be perfect. We want to make it better, and we will spend hours attempting to cover scars that will never really fade, even under the plaster of Paris mom applies you still see them there. They look back at us and mock our attempts at that illusive ‘perfection’ while simultaneously attesting to the fact that they exist. Those scars "for better or worse- are still there beneath the layers of primer and paint.
But at the same time I did not want to paint. I started painting because no one else would. And when I stopped no one else did. So it was left to me (like so many other things) to finish and to finish well and to finish without complaint.
I don’t like painting much anymore. The repetitive process can be soothing after you become accustomed to it, but now my whole body is sore from the stress. From the fights and from hitting my shins on so many different things that just always seem to be in the way.

© 2015 YoruMoriarti



Author's Note

YoruMoriarti
ignore any poor punctuation. please comment on overall impressions. feel free to give advice on where to post little blurbs like this.
Feel free to share (but ONLY with a link back to this page)

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I love the beginning of your story>.>it's very descriptive
However, I cannot exactly grasp the concept of this story

Posted 2 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


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Added on July 18, 2015
Last Updated on July 18, 2015
Tags: short story, life, my life, teen, hipster, teenager, reflections, nostalgia, story, new, awesome, cool, amazing, journal, female writer

Author

YoruMoriarti
YoruMoriarti

New York



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"Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility" - W.Wordsworth I believe this applies to almost all forms of writing (at least.. more..

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