A lady painted golden came to me and spoke of my beauty admiring my color and shape of my lines and face.  She asked me with the pure innocence of a child if I knew the story of the artistry that painted me. Where do I come from in history and time and this question blew my mind. I always wondered in the back of my mind where I come from, was I painted blind?

From the coiled curls that consume my head to the small span of my height I was in fact graced with to the curve of my smile frail wideness of my hips what fountain was I dipped from? My mother light with golden hues hair Sandy red as a child now darker with hues. My father of darker shades I look more of him with my mother's face.

  I questioned  in vain wanting answers to my organization only coming up with bits and pieces and  uncertainty I never thought would be truly questioned until now. Lady painted golden waiting with anticipation as if my answer would be a gift and treasure gem too bright for her to contain but I felt my heart break as hers and I began to answer with uncertainty.

She looked on with understanding and frustration as if she desired to answer the question with desire for me...but the confidence of my canvas began to fade because it's artistry is unknown. To see others boast with pride and joy so much confidence know who created their masterpiece and to look back at me with no clue of who designed mine. To not know all the contributing pieces that created my being, who am I ? I asked internally. So my quest begins to ask the asked unanswered questions of the blood that painted my canvas with so many different shades....