The easel was in the living room, which always smelled like acrylic paint and breakfast sausages my dad would overcook, because that’s all my mom would eat.
My mom had had a breakdown and stopped talking.
My Dad tried everything, got her every therapist, every specialist he could.
One of them got my mom to paint, but not talk.
My mom painted trapeze artists and tightrope walkers.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Jimmy Doom's Roulette Weal to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.