The painter

     Back and forth he guided the brush each stroke a carefully thought out move. He paints houses, has been for over forty-five years. Some say he's too old and will kill himself doing such a thing at his age. Surely he will fall off a ladder or worse! He just laughs it off and goes on with his work. The painting has a calming effect on him, he is alone with his thoughts and the only company he gets is the homeowner occasionally asking how things are going? He has fallen off ladders, been stung by bees, attacked by birds, had a bucket of paint fell onto his head, thank God he was wearing a hat and yes he has even stepped into a pan of paint right up to the ankle. Sometimes when a job requires a helper he calls upon an old friend who also believes he isn't ready to wash the brushes for a while yet. He enjoys his friend's company and has always admired the quality of work he does, much like himself a perfectionist with paint. They sit down at lunchtime sharing stories and sometimes fruit. He lost his wife a while back and still speaks of her as if she was waiting at home. They sit mostly in silence as most of the words have already been spoken besides they have a house to paint. When the house is done and payment made the two old painters head in separate directions him promising to call on him again when needed. Bach home he spends time cleaning his brushes with as much care as a mother cleans her newborn. With everything back in its proper place, he goes inside to an empty house, re-heats last nights leftovers and checks for messages. Seems he's been recommended by a friend to paint the small chapel behind the big church on Hickory street”.That will be a nice job” he thought to himself as he sat in his old recliner and fell asleep to the music of days gone by.

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