My childhood was set against jars of murky grey water, hard clumps of color on a white plastic plate, and stacks of picture frames. My dad has painted mountains for as long as I can remember. Now retired and in his sixties he is still going strong, churning out a new one every week.
Some people paint, my dad is a painter. And I can’t help but think that somewhere, at some point during the years that have passed between those first grey jars and the ones that still clutter his table today, I may have just sucked up a tiny bit of that dedication (along with a lot of paint fumes).
So thank you dad, you inspire me.