The painters are painting the apartment. I’m young—I don’t go to school yet (and I started school, “play school” at three); yes, my mother wanted someone else taking care of me until I could take care of myself, completely, by the age of 5. I remember my mother’s friend Joan coming down to check on the apartment. Later, I remember seeing photos of her visiting and I really was still a baby. Like a baby baby. And if this is my second memory than that crib one goes way back. I remember everything was one color. The walls, the painter himself, his clothes, the drop clothes. I don’t know why I look back on the painter as someone very kind and who I wish would have kidnapped me. He was a Norman Rockwell painter, a television sitcom painter, a kindly American fellow. I remember that much.


Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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