Muralist Love

Amor Muralista

The wall was sixty feet tall and covered with my vision of the neighborhood—abuelas cooking, kids playing, lovers dancing under paper flags.

"You're missing something," she said from below my scaffold.

"Who asked you?"

"No one. But I'm telling you anyway."

Her name was Veronica, and she'd lived in this neighborhood her entire life. Every face I painted, she knew by name.

"That's Señora Gutierrez," she said, pointing. "Her smile's bigger. And her dog should be there—she never goes anywhere without him."

"I paint impressions, not portraits."

"Then your impression is wrong."

I adjusted the painting. Bigger smile. Added the dog.

"Better," she admitted. "You listen."

"When the criticism is good."

"All my criticism is good. I know this place."

She became my consultant. Every day, she'd stand below, directing, critiquing, telling me stories about the people in the mural.

"Why do you care so much?" I asked.

"Because this is my home. And you're painting its soul." She looked up at me. "I want you to get it right."

The mural took three months. Three months of her stories, her opinions, her face becoming as familiar as the ones I painted.

"You should be in here," I said.

"I'm not important enough."

"You're the heart of this whole thing."

I painted her without asking. In the corner, looking up at the mural itself. A woman watching her community be honored.

"Is that me?" she asked when she saw it.

"It's how I see you. Watching over everything."

She cried. Then she kissed me.

"I wasn't supposed to fall in love with the artist," she said.

"Why not?"

"You'll leave. Artists always do. The mural finishes, and you move on."

"What if I stayed?"

"Why would you stay?"

"Because you're the best thing I've found in any neighborhood."

I stayed. Painted more murals. Made this community mine.

"To roots," I toasted at our wedding.

"To the woman who planted them," she replied.

Muralist love—where walls tell stories, and the best art is finding home.