I received this wonderful poem about me from my son Gan....I just love it! Thank you Gan
She walks up the creaky stairs on a cold Spring mourning.
The aroma of the musty attic, has a very familiar feeling.
Then standing before her in its almost magical splendor.
Are two white wooden doors, with a glow that seems to last forever.
Turning the cold handle, there is a pop, creek and a bang.
The door flies open, and the world has just changed.
She squints her eyes for a moment because the room is so bright.
Pumpkin orange walls reflecting the light.
She grips her coffee with both hands to keep warm.
Then looks over her studio, a place, she must have been born.
She walks over to her desk that is covered with paint.
Sits down, takes a drink, and for a moment, just waits.
The sun shines in, from all the windows surrounding.
She says in a whisper to herself “ Lets start this mourning”.
With hands so stiff and full of different colors.
She reaches for her clay, with delicacy, of only a mother.
With strong fingertips she starts forming the cold block.
Softer its getting, like glue when its hot.
She sets the block down and wonders what to make.
Her customers online, don’t like to wait.
The sights and sounds come to her from Boris and Henson.
As to summon their spirits, or at least, just wishing.
Her hands turn faster and her hands begin to limber.
The hours pass by and every second is forever.
Feathers fly around the room in every direction.
The smell of warm cooking clay comes from the oven.
Then with a paint brush so small she paints on her creation.
The strokes are so small, with up-most attention.
Through the phone calls and bathroom breaks she will not let up.
With one thing in mind, she will climb to the top.
With a masterful eye she looks down on what she has made.
She would love to keep what was created, but the bills have to be paid.
The fingers begin to tighten and body begins to tire.
Rubbing her forehead with an exhaustion, that any artist can admire.
With cold coffee in her hand and the days worn chill approaching.
She stands up from the painted desk, and starts her dissention.
The room goes dark ,but the smells still linger.
Cooked clay, glue, the blood and sweat from her fingers.
The white doors close softly as if weeping in sorrow.
“Don’t worry” she says “ I will be back tomorrow”.