I breathed in the aroma still lingering in her house from the linseed oil and paints she had used until the very day she had gotten sick. Grandmother’s ubiquitous presence was eternally tucked in the shadows of the old home. Fond memories filled my soul as a deluge of colours jumped out from the canvases hanging on the walls. As a child, I would become lost in the rhythm of each brush stroke that Grandmother flawlessly painted on the blank world set before her.

I recall her persistence while she tried to teach me to paint. I found it to be an impossible and monotonous task. Primary colours, secondary colours, and tertiary colours; why couldn't they simply be called colours! Everything she had given me was thrown away in an angry fit.

Grandmother never showed her disappointment at my childish outburst that had destroyed the special gifts that she had graciously given me, but the guilt still weighed on me for what I had done so long ago.

The room I frequented as a child remained unchanged. I felt as though I was stepping back in time. Walking over to the dresser, the top drawer beckoned me to open it. A lump formed in my throat. My eyes blurred from built-up tears while treasured memories flooded my head of my sweet grandmother. A new colour wheel, paints, brushes, and a paint by number kit stared back at me along with a handwritten note.

“Thank you, Grandma.”