Lavender Walls

By Seamus Ludendorff

Dad repaints the kitchen walls white. Mother painted it lavender before she left.

“White’s sensible,” he says. “Orderly. That’s a kitchen.”

He paints with cold precision. Any fleck of purple is suppressed.

Mother loved lavender.

“The color of dreams and expression,” she said, brushing away tears. “Sadness too.”

“Dad’s a realist,” she added.

I wish I responded. Maybe she’d have taken me with her.

Wish in one hand, shit in the other, Dad says.

One night, I start painting. Lavender. I paint with swiftness, imagining her smiling. I imagine a father who can dream. I try to smile. It’s too crooked.