It made sense. I wanted to be a painter and my mother bought me ballet slippers and a tuba. Maybe she never forgave me for running away from home for a day. Or causing my father to hang himself.

When I paint I feel as if the paint comes from the brush from my fingers from the veins flowing blood that changes color as it hits the canvas.

My mother still blames me in subtle meaning hidden within her conversations. "That's lovely dear, but it's so depressing, no?"