Friday Paint Job with Mr. Dad

I watched the white paint glide over the trimmings from my paintbrush and leave a sheen that glistened under the sun.

I marveled at the simplicity of the brush I was using and how people have been using such a tool for centuries, decorating masterpieces inside cathedrals and humble birdhouses inside garages.

My arms got tired from reaching for the top of door jambs. When I walked down the stairs I felt my legs tremble like jelly from squatting where the floors and walls met.

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