I went to Clarissa's garage, where she had taken the last three artworks my mother had painted; two of them were prepared to be sold before she even passed, but it never happened, and the other one was just halfway done.

I grabbed the last painting, dusted it off, and carried it upstairs after a five-minute search in the garage. I walk into my room, gently placing the painting on the floor as I make my way to my closet, which hides my art supplies.

I took the box out of its secure place and set it down beside the painting. I sat on the floor, my legs crossed, gazing at the painting, imagining what my mother would have created if she had the opportunity to complete it.

A week ago, I finally created something. Years of not being able to touch something art-related have made my fingers foreign to the unexpected touch of my art materials that bring only memories of my mother, painting.

They were lovely memories that just became stale with time. Fear of touching and seeing something that reminds me of my mom serves to terrify me.

I began working, creating, and becoming artistic again after I got over the thought of allowing fear to overtake me. It was as if fresh life had sprouted inside me, and the seeds, longing for the sun, had eventually found it as it blossoms into a lovely flower under the golden sun.

I couldn't think of anything to connect the dots in my mother's artwork that she had left for me to try and figure out. I couldn't tell if the painting depicted a human, an inanimate object, or a landscape.

Is it true that I'm crazy for attempting to complete this artwork rather than making it sit as it is inside the garage? Would my sister tell me what to paint if she were here? Would my mother teach me where to begin if she were here? Will my father encourage me if he were here?

I take out a few unused Winsor & Newton Professional Acrylic tubes of paint that my mother gave me for Christmas three years ago. "This paint works very similarly to oil paint in the sense that it is straightforward to mix and takes a long time to dry, not as long as oils but decent enough to allow for good blending," she told me.

When I paint with my mother, I use an old paintbrush that I've always enjoyed using. I sat there, still looking at the canvas, unsure of where to begin or what to paint. Tapping the paintbrush on my head.

I figured it would take some time to come up with something, but I let myself think like my mother. She would look at the canvas blankly before even starting to paint. She rubs her jaw and tilts her head side to side as she thinks about something—anything.

I shake my head as if shaking the faint voices inside my head would help them disappear. I drop the paintbrush on my hand, scratching my head almost aggressively.

"Think of someone or something that inspires you to do anything, even if it's the least of things," My mother's voice echoes in the back of my mind. Her voice was as delicate as a champagne flute, the kind that waits for the silverware to clink the glass at dinner parties.

I close my eyes. When I'm trying to develop new ideas, I go through this routine, but all I saw was a blank space.

"Lauren."

Someone is calling my name in hushed tones. I open my eyes to a familiar voice forcing me to glance over my shoulder, but there is no one standing by the door to my room.

"Lauren."

I hear it once more. As if shaking my head will help, I do it anyway. My ears were soothed by the voice, which sounded like softly lapping waves on the sea.

"Lauren, it's me."

As tears welled up in my eyes, the tone of her voice became audible to my ears. Standing up from the floor, I try to figure out where the voice came from.

The voice continued to call out my name as I walked out of my room, and I continued to pursue following it.

"What are you doing?" Zania's voice can be heard approaching from behind me. As I turn around, I see Zania standing a few inches across from me with her brows furrowed.

I blink the tears away from my eyes, "Nothing." I said as I returned to my room and closed the door behind me, shaking the voice out of my mind before it completely consumes me.