text: It was mid-morning and Junpei lay in bed trying to remember what day of the week it was. Not that it mattered; Junpei was in retirement now, and every day felt the same. He missed the good anticipation on the eve of holidays, but not the agony of Sunday nights. Even the seasons weren’t so noticeable anymore, since he rarely left his house. And it was hunger, not the clock, what gave away the passage of time. In the kitchen, Junpei’s wife Ayami set aside a bowl of rice, a bowl of soup, and some grilled fish leftover from dinner. Junpei came into the kitchen and kissed his wife. She stopped washing dishes and joined Junpei at the kitchen table as he ate his breakfast. “Mr. Lacroix called,” Ayami said, “the paint has arrived.” Their 50th wedding anniversary was coming up and Ayami had mentioned that she’d prefer to have the inside of their house repainted, instead of having a party. Junpei thought it was a strange request, but he complied without asking for an explanation. In fact, the walls hadn’t been painted for many years. They were dark and stained, although Junpei hadn’t noticed it until Ayami pointed that out to him. Maybe Ayami felt that a nice, fresh coat of white paint around them would be like a new beginning; a great way to celebrate and welcome the next half century together. After breakfast, Junpei drove to Mr. Lacroix’s hardware store. A pile of paint cans, brushes, and other accessories were waiting for him at the counter. He asked for some masking tape and furniture covers as well, and loaded everything in the back of his car. Junpei’s idea was to start painting right away, or the walls wouldn’t be ready and dry in time for their anniversary. As soon as he arrived home, Junpei got busy covering the furniture with tarp, and spreading old newspaper pages on the floor of the living room. Every now and then he’d slow down to read a bit of news or a colorful ad. When all surfaces and objects were covered, Junpei stepped back to look at the room. It reminded him of a lunar landscape. The disappearance of everything they had collected throughout their lives under those ghostlike mounds of canvas made him feel lonely. Where was Ayami? She had been quiet all this time; had something happened while he was away at the store? After searching the whole house for his wife, Junpei found her in the backyard. She was lying on the ground, one hand holding a pair of shears, the other a flower she had snipped with them. Junpei sat next to Ayami and ran his hand over her cold, quiet body, and told her how much she meant to him, as if her life had only been suspended and all it needed to come back was a proof of his love and sorrow. But the hours passed, Junpei’s tears dried on his cheeks, and nothing else changed. Junpei went inside the house and brought back a pillow and a blanket for Ayami. After making her comfortable he went back inside, to the living room, and looked at the cans of paints and brushes scattered on the floor. Without knowing what else to do, he started painting the walls. \- Junpei worked for two days and two nights, stopping only a few times, to make soup or tea, and place it next to Ayami in the backyard. Each time he brought out a new bowl, he found, with sadness, that the previous one hadn’t been touched. When the whole house was done, the walls became intensely bright, as if they emanated light themselves. Junpei meant to uncover the furniture and clear the floor, but felt that now it was unnecessary. The excessive whiteness of the walls was a bit disturbing, though, and Junpei went outside to rest his eyes. Compared to his newly painted house, the world seemed tired and worn. Trees were blemished, street walls were covered with obscenities and mold, rusty cars paraded over asphalt so profusely patched, it revealed more shades of black anyone imagined could exist. While it all seemed natural before, now it gave Junpei the sense that people didn’t care about where or howthey lived. There were a few cans of paint left in the house. Junpei brought them out and began to paint the trunk of an old tree. Little by little, his brush covered every scar left by decades of unpunished attacks from humans and animals, storms and machines. Next were the sidewalks; he couldn’t cover their cracks, but at least he could make them resemble soothing paths of pure white snow. Lastly, he laid a veil of peace over words of hate scribbled on street walls. And he only stopped when he was out of paint, and they came to take him away. \- “Why did you decide to paint over everything?” Kiko asked her father. “The world looked like it needed one or two coats of paint,” Junpei said. Kiko and her husband Peter smiled in agreement as they heard that. The hospital chairs were uncomfortable and the couple looked forward to going home soon; Ayami’s funeral had been early that morning, and they felt very tired. Junpei had not attended the ceremony; he was in shock, unable to understand the reality of his wife’s death. When Kiko mentioned the heart attack that had killed her mother, Junpei had said, “Don’t be silly. What’s a heart full of love going to have an attack for?” Kiko wondered if her father would ever accept a new life without his beloved Ayami or even realize that she was gone forever. On her way home, while Peter drove, Kiko watched the narrow band of night being revealed by the car’s headlights. Although passing briefly before her eyes, the scars of missing tree limbs were clearly visible, and so were the potholes and cracks of the road, and the run-over weeds that tried emerging from these cracks, and the sky in disarray with clouds reflecting artificial orange lights. Kiko could discern random words, fragments of phrases hastily scratched on walls,like screams in the dark. For a second, the lights washed a group of homeless people wrapped in dirty blankets, sleeping under a bridge, and Kiko imagined she could see into their neglected souls: like everything else, they were stained and scored with lesions. They had been mended again and again by their masters with threads of hope, but kept bleeding at the seams. A fine rain started falling. Peter turned on the wipers, and Kiko could still see outside, at intervals. By the time Kiko and Peter got home, the drizzle had become a powerful storm. Peter parked the car and ran inside. After a moment, he realized that his wife hadn’t followed him. He looked out the window and saw Kiko standing in the cleansing rain, arms raised to the sky in a welcoming gesture.