I was thinking about dappled sunlight while I daubed paint onto the canvas, my face up close to it. The colors evolved on my palette, each one a combination of what came before it.

The sunlight daubed onto my Grammy and me in a cemetery where my ancestors had been laid to rest. She was a combination of her parents. We visited their grave. She and Grampa mixed their colors to make my Mom, and then she and dad blended their hues to come up with me.

We’re all made of the same stuff, handed down from generation to generation. We each get our turn. We get to walk around, feel the summer breeze in the shade of ancient trees while the branches sway and paint us in golden light.

We get our chance to live a life and tell our story.

The colors I started with were like my great grandparents, and so I am still them with a few others mixed in.

I want to hear the stories of their lives. Without them, I wouldn’t be. Their stories are my stories. We’re all chapters of one volume.

Each chapter is full of adventure and heartbreak, love and loss. Creative solutions to challenges, and a nonchalance about the confluence that merged to give me a turn.