The palette of oil paints used by my portrait artist mother when I was a child were preserved in the kitchen freezer between painting sessions. The mustard yellow appliance provided space where the paints co-mingled with my popsicles and the leftover tuna casserole from Sunday dinner. Raised in the countryside of rural Michigan, I thought every mother stood at the easel painting all day while I lit up my world with the childhood game Lite-Brite.
I come from a long line of artists on both my paternal and maternal sides, the numbers of which only are exceeded by the contrasting sum total of the family members who have experienced cancer.
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