“I imagine they’re terrible sparring partners so no. What’s the name of the color? I’m gonna go with Poor Man’s Xanax.”
I rolled a swatch onto the wall and framed it with my hands, shamelessly presenting it as I answered “This…is Sunnyside Lane. I’m going to live there, except, you know, here.” Mom’s stone face was resting in her palm, physically unable to partake in my joy.
“I thought a light color would open up the room. I’ve seen yellow rooms that look enormous,” I continued. I loaded my roller again and started really putting a coat down. I fell deeper and deeper in love with the color, so much so that I considered abandoning my original plan for the walls. I had intended to put up small posters of the cast of Saturday Night Live, flyers from school plays, and new collages from home décor magazines I’d buy. Now I thought I’d just enjoy the purity of the daffodil-colored walls, at least for the first month. By the time I’d finished half the wall, the rhythm of my paint strokes caused my mind to wander. My mind could no longer focus on the mellow glow of the wall for all my mother’s micro-complaints were poking through it. I painted over them, pressing the roller hard, running them over, watching them spin back into view, helplessly crushed into the soft yellow wool. I realized she was cluttering me too and I painted over everything. When I finished the wall, I