Painting the Outhouse

It serves no useful purpose;

with the plumbing moved inside,

we make no more early dashes

across the morning grass, our feet dew-wet,

nor late night trips at bedtime, barefoot,

gingerly stepping, a flashlight’s beam

lighting our way, making visible our path

to where it rests now, tilted back among the trees,

unseen in the years of growth surrounding it,

keeping it hidden, tucked away unused;

but we can’t bring ourselves to tear it down,

“just in case,” we tell ourselves, “a plumbing disaster,”

or perhaps for old-times’ sake, remembering its place in our lives,

we keeping it, for its charm, its character, its rusticity.

So there it remains, a vital part of our lives,

a reminder of what was, once, long ago, who we were, then,

but it’s in need of a fresh coat of paint,

and some minor repairs, to restore its charm, its quaintness,

a summer’s job for granddaughters, bored and eager to help;

so we sweep away the cobwebs

and replace a rotted board or two,

peel away old paint, long chipped and cracked,

sloughed off under the flat blade

scraped against the agéd wood, or brushed away,

the wood prepared by a wire brush rasping,

a steady snowfall of old paint flakes falling,

till, satisfied, we stand back, bare wood revealed,

weather worn, or stained, decades of green soaked in;

and we begin, a beautifying, a transformation,

a restoration, green paint selected, a careful selection,

a close match to its original color, an authentic green,

outhouse green, because …, because it was always that color,

no need to change, to force us to adjust, update, modernize,

no need to consider new colors, red or brown or blue,

just green, our brushes dipped and raised, dripping,

tickling down the bare wood, and caressed, a rhythmic brushing,

down and up and down, repeated, again, and again,

our brushes dipped and raised, the paint absorbed,

soaking in, the old wood parched and drinking in new life;

and restored and renewed, made bright, again,

bright green, the outhouse tilts back among the trees, still,

a vital part of our lives restored, returned to where we are,

its charm and quaintness, rusticity, restored, “just in case,”

we tell ourselves, for old times’ sake.