an ode to my mother, the magic maker I clearly remember being 5 years old. I remember the intoxicating smell from big cans of Benjamin Moores the day my mother let me paint my own furniture. She stripped me down to my underwear with the little flowers, pulled my hair into a messy braid, tore three holes in a Hefty garbage bag that became my "artist's smock", and my 3 year old brother and I spent the better half of a Sunday painting our bed frames on the small porch of our apartment overlooking the lake where we would feed the turtles. I can still feel the plastic against my skin, the dried paint under my nails. That apartment became our castle, our refuge. We'd come home after a long day braving school and the real world, and wash off any remnants of reality dancing in the front yard sprinklers. We'd trudge up the stairs with our uniforms heavy with the weight of the water and leave them in a sopping heap at the front door. We'd climb from Welcome ...