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Rinsing Paintbrushes --
7-30-04
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insing the paint from a paintbrush, I marvel at how very long it seems
to take to rinse it all from deep within the bristles.� The density
seems unchanged for far longer than it should, puddling in the bottom of
the sink, clinging as if desperate to leave its mark.
��� It's mindless work, and I have that conversation
with you again.� That last conversation, when you promised me that
you'd learned, and would never do anything so stupid again.� I hear
the pain in your voice and feel that lump rising in my throat again, and
I wonder could I really have done anything to have changed any of it;�
as I notice the paint caked under my fingernails.
��� How many times must we have this discussion?�
Is it you who keeps bringing it up, or is it me?� Am I angrier with
you or with myself?
��� The color thins, as the cool water rushes through
the brush.� It takes a considerable force to mash the color out of
the bristles, and as I smash them into the bottom of the sink to watch
the rich swirls of color rise up from deep within, I curse you for not
saying good-bye and try to put you out of my mind for the ten thousandth
time.
��� Realizing these brushes are as clean as they'll
ever get, I take them to the front yard to shake them out and you remind
me that you did say good-bye.� I had known it, then, but shelved it
behind old hopes and new dreams, and never thought it could be what it
was.
��� And as I fling the last drops of water from these
brushes, I notice that the color may have faded, but I know it'll be there forever. |
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