[ WP ] Write me something that will make me feel . To make me emotional . To make it rain .

Apologies for tardiness: 
 
 I can ’ t remember how many times my mother painted the house, or how many colors. The egg shell whites, the parmesan yellows, the pop tart pinks. She had as many colors for the rooms as my father did books for a topic. I think it was a way for her to create change in a world where change was always creating her. Like some anchor in her life, painting a room was akin to rebirth. It was a renewal, and maybe she was trying to paint a new life in a room that was stained with strife. Maybe she was trying to expunge memories and emotions that clouded at the paint like thick hair, or smoke. Perhaps the paint was as much makeup as she could muster, to hide her own bruises that she could not disguise. 
 
 She sings a tuneless song as she paints, I lie on my back listening to her. She sings a song so old it has lost all marrow and life, and is nearly just a gasp. She can no longer dance with me, she says she can not hear the music anymore. I have tried, I even sang her favorite song, only to get the faintest smile. 
 
 What does a woman, who hears no music, think of as she paints an empty room? Is it of the color, bleeding into the older past of the wall, the drippings it makes? The room, empty around her, has breath. Do her thoughts run from corner to corner, with every line of the tape, tracing the architect's intent? Does she think about the light, striking the wall around her shadow's form, and how in different ways, different lights will have different plays? 
 
 She brushes a hair from the front of her head with the back of her hand. No paint there, to smear another surface that has seen too many years. Do her hands reach too far, making the color slip and spill away from the corner, the point she needs to finish? She does n't hear music, but the rhythm she paints to has been broken. She stares at the spot on the floor with an eyebrow matching the doorway, sharp and at an angle. 
 
 She hears no music, and so she does n't paint. Like the room, she is only another surface, waiting to be purposed. I roll to my stomach as footsteps approach. My mother hears no music, and my father has no mercy. 
 
 I hear my fathers yells and my mothers cries, louder than my song within. 
 
 

