Dear Wigleaf,

I wish I could've written you from the woman's library, the one where the ceiling had leaked but, thank god, her thousand books remained dry. It was almost twenty years ago in Michigan, and April meant time for the housepainters to emerge from interior-work hibernation. The snow would be melted, except for the stubborn glaciers withering in the backs of parking lots. We'd strap our ladders on our roof racks and drive toward siding, toward soffit and trim, fences and decks and porches, toward exterior anything, where we could finally smoke while we worked again, the freedom of open air, cut buckets hugged to our chests—the perfect painting weather before summer scorched our calves and necks.

But we had this last interior, this woman and her whole room just for books. I'd never seen it before in a home, and what maybe I loved most about painting was seeing the secret rooms inside all your houses. You could hide nothing. I was Kilzing the remaining water stains, climbing atop the massive oaken bookcases, and she caught me at it, using the shelves instead of my ladder. I acted fast and complimented her collection, told her I was taking literature classes at the community college. And she didn't bust me about monkeying around on her shelves. She watched me from the doorway, in full faith of carpentry and unworried I'd drip my paint.

Take care.

Dustin




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Read DH's story.

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