Living with anarchists, I feel a lot of pressure to go out to protest, to do something in the wake of Philandro Castille’s murder. This Friday night though I choose to be at home alone, to paint in my front yard.
I witness two young men beating each other on the front steps across the street. The mother screams at them to stop. I keep painting.
A woman walks by and says hello to me. I ask her for suggestions on how to fill the blank space. The women gets out two pieces of paper and a pen. “I love art,” she says. “People think I’m crazy, but when I get an apartment, it’s my dream to paint a door like this.”
The woman leaves me standing on the tiny green square of green as dark comes, her careful sketches left behind to guide my brushstrokes. They are blue, green, yellow, and red, so simple. I am so sure of the brush in my hand, the imperfect form of each line.
“You’re not crazy.”