A smooth long swath was followed by subtle dabs. Not drips of the Pollock technique; the media wasn’t of a drip consistency. The creation of art involves many decisions. What choice of canvas? Theme? Subject? Format? Size? Colors? Creation has to flow. Overthinking can destroy the emotion of the moment. There were more and furious strokes. It was coming together. Slashing. More dabs. Smears. This was inspiration! Yes, it was dark, but some of the world’s great art was born of inky darkness. Finally, it was complete. There was not a detail to be changed. It captured the moment perfectly. It was ready. Ready for the world to see. At the time, “the world” consisted of my 19 year old mother and 25 year old dad. Mom heard my voice, and the excitement in it. As she entered I could tell by the look on her young face that she was completely blown away. Young Mary Carol was awestruck. It was a moment I’ll never forget and nor will she. She called to my father; not unlike a cry from one lover to another when finally seeing the “Mona Lisa” at the Louvre. My father’s face contorted. The complexity of the work may have overwhelmed him at first. My mom leaned in toward me laughing and crying. It was an emotional moment of unusual power. She gently picked me up. My dad retrieved my first palette; a now empty cotton diaper.