A Mural of Course

A mural painter? Why not? I asked myself. My husband was inside, glued to a Lazy-Boy recliner watching five TVs simultaneously. He would not have a fit about something he did not see, right? How often does he come to the porch anyway? I began to plot out my legacy, something to leave the family. To reassure them that their assessment of me is sound. I am crazier than a mouse running into a cat’s mouth. I was grinning as wide as I have ever grinned, as I plotted. Drawing my ideas out in full scale, with pencil. What to plan? Faeries, dragons, witches, gypsies, unicorns too. All of my canvases are done in cartoon form; I am a natural at this. I wanted more colors though, at least twenty of them. I took inventory of my mural paints – red, black, gold, green, pink, blue. Ordered sixteen more colors; this is going to be gloriously gaudy. My sister came over when I was drawing the idea out in pencil. It was going to be large; fifty feet long; covering the entire back of the house. “I wouldn’t paint siding if I were you,” she said prissily. Good thing she isn’t me, isn’t it? And good thing she did not know my husband was home. She is a tattle-tale in addition to being brazenly bossy.