I paint in my basement, cradled by heater ducts and redwood beams. I go downstairs with a cat or two and a cup of tea, turn on NPR, and fill my palette with beautiful colors. I can't leave until the colors are all used up. Photos and sketchbooks are scattered about, wood panels and old picture frames. It's a chapel. It's a dungeon. Just the easel is illuminated with a blank canvas. Have I painted my last? Are new surprises in store? Will anyone notice? This painting will be for only my eyes. For now.