I ran my fingers over the chunk in the wall. The painters were color matching our rooms that were in need of a refresh, so they cut a square out of the wall to bring to the paint store. Under our top white layer of paint were other layers. Variations of blue, pink, and a remnant of wallpaper. It struck me that other families lived here and created stories and memories of their own in these rooms.
Our house was built in 1951 so that’s 75 years of living. How did they decorate? I felt curious and then nostalgic for a history I know nothing about.
Then I started thinking about my own layers, and who painted them.
If the section of my life with Liz were a color, it might be neon yellow. She’s fun and free and her brain never seems to be congested by worry like mine. I learned about spontaneity with Liz. She didn’t overthink, she just did. And, with her, so did I. We took a road trip one spring break from Oregon to Southern California and back. Hours in her Honda CR-V, listening to music, making stops along the way to places I had never seen. We broke down only an hour away from campus. It was the last thing we wanted after such a long trip. Somehow it was okay with her.
She pushed me. And we laughed. The last time I saw her she was moving onto her sailboat in Hawaii, a local celebrity at a yacht club that looked magically preserved from the 70s. Life is bright and loud with Liz. So neon.
I called her recently to thank her. Every call with her still leaves me energized.
Someday someone will cut a square out of this house’s wall and find my layer of alabaster white.