My mother loved life. She liked to laugh. She was quick with a smile.
She considered herself an artist and produced many paintings, which she framed herself. The truth is she had very little artistic talent. Often the frame looked better than the painting.
She might take some nuts and bolts, paint them green, glue them on a canvas and finish this work with water colors. The final picture was a mess, but not to her.
She would hang these paintings on the walls of our house, right next to a Monet or a Picasso. When she was in her final days, transformed from years of Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s, she might still look up and give you a big smile. I miss that.