Where the closet wasEverything has to get worse before it can get better, right? That's what they say, anyhow, and I have seen it -- and made it happen -- too many time to spend a second worrying about it anymore. I bring the sledgehammer and the pickax down on concrete, take a crowbar to glued on drywall, and rip cheap wainscoting off with my bare (bear) hands, and I don't think twice about it.
I will know what to do, and it will be beautiful(ler).
This is what I say to myself every time I hear my husband's nervous voice in my head and actually see him gaze woebegonely into what was once, well, a room with a floor.
"Tout ça pour un parquet en chêne," he muttered (sort of) to himself on the last day. I knew better than to reply, but I did anyway, adding an extra pinch of chipper and bright to my voice from where I was kneeling in his blues de travail in the dusty rubble where the floor used to be. The one he installed on the old carpeting, glued to the rat slab, poured over the ruins of the walls of the smaller bump on the old house.
"Oui, et ça va être si beau!"
"Je ne suis toujours pas convaincu pour le placard," he said, his eyes moving from me to where the closet used to be. I'm still not convinced for the closet. Oh! But I am!
"It will be so much better. You'll see. We'll get a bigger room, and we'll make something of it, and I'll show you the ideas I have, and if you still aren't convinced, I'll make it just like it was," I babbled on like a running brook.
He shook his head and his lips disappeared into a scornful look of pure doubt.
You just have to say that, I thought to myself; there are some things you really do not need to say out loud. And, I will politely and gayly overlook it when you look with wonder upon the end result!
Inshallah. From my thoughts to God's ear.
I beamed to myself at the prospect of a lovelier room, the product of my hands, and my generosity with my husband's sourness, the absurdity of my hopefulness in the present situation there on the rubble floor not failing to escape me.
....
I will know what to do, and it will be beautiful(ler).
This is what I say to myself every time I hear my husband's nervous voice in my head and actually see him gaze woebegonely into what was once, well, a room with a floor.
"Tout ça pour un parquet en chêne," he muttered (sort of) to himself on the last day. I knew better than to reply, but I did anyway, adding an extra pinch of chipper and bright to my voice from where I was kneeling in his blues de travail in the dusty rubble where the floor used to be. The one he installed on the old carpeting, glued to the rat slab, poured over the ruins of the walls of the smaller bump on the old house.
"Oui, et ça va être si beau!"
"Je ne suis toujours pas convaincu pour le placard," he said, his eyes moving from me to where the closet used to be. I'm still not convinced for the closet. Oh! But I am!
"It will be so much better. You'll see. We'll get a bigger room, and we'll make something of it, and I'll show you the ideas I have, and if you still aren't convinced, I'll make it just like it was," I babbled on like a running brook.
He shook his head and his lips disappeared into a scornful look of pure doubt.
You just have to say that, I thought to myself; there are some things you really do not need to say out loud. And, I will politely and gayly overlook it when you look with wonder upon the end result!
Inshallah. From my thoughts to God's ear.
I beamed to myself at the prospect of a lovelier room, the product of my hands, and my generosity with my husband's sourness, the absurdity of my hopefulness in the present situation there on the rubble floor not failing to escape me.
....
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