"This is yours", I am told.
Brush in hand I feel the weight
It's mine, that's what was said.
The weight comes with emotions
Many, not just one.

Gripping it tightly I feel power
responsibility
excitement
joy
contentment
peace

...

fear.
It might be too heavy.
It is too heavy. Is it?
Who knew a paintbrush could mean so much

"This is yours."
It's ringing in my ears.
I look at the canvas and see something breathtaking
It's beautiful and horrible all together.

I want to cry, of gratitude
but also of disgust.
I've already painted
This was me.

Now I have the brush again
Where do I begin
What colors do I desire?
What colors do I cover?
What colors do I add?

I dip the entire brush
into the vibrant sunrise yellow
"This is yours"
Echoes in my heart.