Coat of Paint

I painted the wall of my room sunshine yellow
and the other three a deep orange-red.
I painted my new table top turquoise, and the salvaged legs blue, then my housemate's step ladder magenta and lime green.
I painted the back of my chest of drawers orange, and I
 built six new shelves.
one burgundy, one gold, and the last four yellow, pink, teal and peach.

I hadn't thought of the words "a fresh coat" until
I was mostly done painting the drawers of my old desk purple.
in my sweatshirt and pants now crusted with tones.
and I thought about the night we frantically piled the plastic tins from the warehouse in to my car
and the carload in to boxes, and the boxes in to my hall.
waiting for some next time we spoke confidently of coming.

It was the last night that felt that way- purposeful and clear.
Staying up much too late and laughing at our own haste.
I knew, by that point, how rocky these months would be.
I didn't know how many, though.
I was too tired to look very far ahead, and in retrospect perhaps I couldn't have beared it.

In august I spoke longingly of this christmas- the first week I could imagine no one would call me to ask a favor.
By then I might have cleaned my car. And I couldn't fathom that I'd feel nostalgic yet for urgency, for weariness, for the feeling needed, though of course I would.

I've been going slowly all month, and maybe this time I learned that you don't have to push for the pushing- it will come.
But it's not just about the heartbreak, now, it's this feeling at sea.
 I wonder if I'll ever forget how temporal certainty feels right now. The holding myself together,  embarrassed to relay on recent concrete memory. the now starting over, the fresh coat of paint.