Paint

After Pop Pop went to live in the nursing home up the road, and it was clear he would not be coming back, my Mom made the last minute decision to go to an elder attorney. The Summit, the fine nursing home facility--complete with rancid hallways, sad pruned faces, and palpable depression--wanted the money that was due to them for the initial three months he spent there while he tried to recuperate. With little knowledge of the law in cases like these, the decision to seek help proved critically helpful. Grandma had to spend what she could, the attorney advised, bringing down the amount of money she had to her name. This helped with getting Pop Pop on state insurance.

I got a job out of the deal: painting the house. The new color had a hint more purple than the old slate gray that had clung so long to the cedar shingles that were finally starting to peel and chip, especially on the North side of the house, where the summer tomatoes sucked up most of the day's sun. I started the job on the opposite side, the South side, the smallest side. It wasn't half way into the first day that I realized the job would take a lot longer than I originally guessed. The job took even longer than my second estimate, and finally finished three weeks later.

Months later, when Grandma passed away, I got sick at the fact that the new paint job helped in selling the house. I felt like I had contributed in some way, unknowingly betrayed myself at a cost far greater than the price of the house. These emotions were the first thing that came to mind, and, right or wrong, I felt them.