House Paint

By Jeffrey Paolano

Below the off ramp sits a BP station. Within I ask, “Hi, this way to Burpar?”

The counter girl with a directional nod manages, “Four miles.”

I inquire at the Burpar General Dollar store, “Does Mr. Willingson, the artist, live out this way?” A congregation of customers and clerks confer then provide directions.

A macadam road carries me into the bucolic countryside.

As I approach the designated gravel lane, my apprehension heightens. No portent of majestic artistry is evident.

When I step from the Jeep, I behold the magnificence that has been wrought upon wooden slabs with house paint.

I weep.