She painted.

In a grey town in Michigan,
she painted for herself, a life with color.

In Hollywood,
she painted her lips red.

In New York,
a family with glamour.

She painted blue in Hawaii.  To the songs of romance and waves, she painted Thanksgivings, Christmases, and Birthdays together.  She danced in the living room to oldies, and loved to surf waves in the rain.

 We painted mountains and snuck wasabi into grandpa's sandwiches. We spent all morning in the sunshine watching the birds eat, all afternoon building a tree house, and night hearing family stories with bad Scottish-brogues in front of a warm fire.

The sunrise on the bay painted our mornings and she painted the childhoods of 30 "kittycats" with imagination.  She made cardboard castles, civil war armies, wagons, teepees, and hope-chests, out of thin air.  She painted laughter on rocks.  In all that was plain and ugly, in all that was cold and unfair, she demanded beauty and defied anything short of joy.

She was our grandmother.
She painted the bathroom sink.