Mother Van Gogh
December 18, 2008
My mother is possessed by the spirit of a painter. Not exactly Vincent van Gogh, though. Not Pablo Picasso either. Nor Carravagio, Vermeer, Chagall, Monet, Da Vinci, or any other famous dead painter you can think of.
She’s possessed with the spirit of a house painter.
Oh, if somehow you begin to browse the internet and found this blog, I’m seriously just kidding, Mum. Have mercy, please. =p
Yesterday I got home to a house smelling of paint. The top floors had been painted, and on the ground floor which was basically the garage, were tall metal stair, shorter wooden one, buckets filled with water, buckets filled with paint, empty buckets, brushes, and lots and lots of newspaper.
My Mum told me proudly that she had been repainting our house for almost a month now, starting from 7 AM, then she’s stopped at 10 to make lunch, then begun again at 12, stopping for coffee at 3 PM and finally called it a day at 6 PM.
“Wow,” I said, for I was dumbstruck for other words.
“Well, now she’s found other career choice instead of being a housewife,” my Dad said.
And while being home was great, that night I couldn’t shake off a faint feeling of doom. And as always, I was right. Today my mother told me to paint the lower wall of the ground floor, while she worked on the upper wall with the metal stair.
“This way it’ll be done more quickly,” she reasoned.