My father was a painter and potter. A real artist. Growing up, the smell of turpentine and oil paint was as familiar to me as the walls of our home. People would marvel at his work. They would say he had a gift. I believed that completely. He could capture light and shadow like it was alive.

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I adored watching him create, although every time I picked up a brush myself, insecurity crept in. How could I ever measure up to someone so talented? My attempts felt clumsy in the shadow of his brilliance, so I never journeyed into the world of visual art as I convinced myself that it belonged to him alone.

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When he passed away, his easel stood silent. For years, I could not bring myself to disturb it. Losing him left a hollow space that I did not know how to fill.

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Eventually, in a quiet moment of courage, I dipped a brush into color. My hands trembled. The first stroke felt like a conversation opening, as if he were standing behind me, guiding the movement. That feeling never left.

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Now, each time I paint, something extraordinary happens. The shapes and colors flow in ways I never expected, far beyond what I ever thought I could do. 

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I do not claim to understand it, yet I feel his presence in every line and layer like a silent dance between color and the canvas.  It is as though he is still here, teaching me, loving me, reminding me that creativity is not a comparison. It is a legacy.

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My father was a painter. Now, I am too.