The Paintbrush

My hand hangs suspended in the air

Paintbrush dipped in blue paint

Clasped in trembling fingers

It’s just a test swatch

I tell myself for the

Millionth time.

But still brush has

Yet to meet wall.

It feels wrong to do this

It is still Mom’s bedroom

I’m looking for approval

From someone who can

No longer give it.

And yet the need to

Take that first step towards

A future without her

Feels so critically important.

A primal instinct to not get

Entrapped in my grief

And enshrine her bedroom

Never to be touched

Or changed.

I can’t let that happen.

Taking a deep breath

Brush meets wall in

Broad strokes.

Color shall lead my way

Towards an uncertain future.

I only hope I choose

The right one.