At the age of forty-three; to this day one of my fondest memories is of my grandma and her pastels. From the age of seven to the tragic day she passed away, I can still remember waking up to hand squeezed orange juice, and steamy, moist, fresh-out-of-the-oven banana bread, and grandma no where in sight. From down the hall I could hear the soft, gentle humming while she worked in her studio; these folksongs, passed down from her mother and from generations before her, where often the source of her inspiration for her pastel paintings. I sat down in silence, listening to the grandfather clock ticking time away, and finished my bread. I rose from the table and my tiny feet pattered down the hall to the grand door of her studio.

I softly pressed against it, and with a loud creak, the door glided open. Viewing the various paintings of color was always a treat for my curious eyes.

Grandma never knew what she was going to create until she entered her studio. She always told me that the creative energy was at its greatest here.

That day she was painting a simple, white house surrounded by a vast amount of greenery. Simple, yes, but so beautiful; I just wanted to touch it and let it take me to the house, because it looked so real! I sighed, knowing I could never paint like she could.


Though Grandma was old, her hearing was as sharp as a knife. With a big smile on her face, she scooped me up in her arms and hugged me. 'What is the matter my love?' she asked in her thick Russian accent.

'I will never be able to paint like you.'