This morning as I was touching up paint in our house in preparation for it to go on the market, I got a little sentimental. The brush glided a silky trail of ivory over the sill where Michael used to race his Matchbox cars. A sweet childhood memory is now forever hidden under a gilt of semi-gloss. I thought about the next mother who will occupy this starter-family home. It has been a perfect shelter to rock my babies to sleep and prepare nutritious meals for their growing bodies - and it will provide those same comforts to the next family. I will paint my sills so she doesn't have to do it.
As one thought often gifts another, I then thought about the older mom who might be preparing her house for me. Perhaps her children are grown and out of the house. Perhaps she and her husband are moving to Florida, or Alexandria, or a houseboat in St. Michaels. Is she painting her sills, too?
My thoughts drifted to prayers for these imagined, romanticized women, their children, and their new adventures - and then back to thoughts - and then back to chores. It was then that I promptly dipped my paintbrush into my coffee cup instead of the paint bucket.
Back to work.
