When I was little, I sometimes stayed with my great grandma.

In between tea parties and Neapolitan ice cream, I would color grand masterpieces outside on the sidewalk. When at home, I was always preoccupied with my next great artistic idea, like the time I taped up an entire book of hideous wallpaper samples. At my Nana's and Papa's I would paint by numbers, at church, I colored innumerable Lisa Frank books, and in the second grade, I once drew a picture for each of my 20-something classmates. In short- I was always a creative child.

When I was thirteen, I discovered my most favorite artist, Salvador Dali. During a research project for my literature class, I dove into his absolutely maniacal, eccentric, tumbling lifestyle and I was hooked. In one of his multiple biographies, he said- “A true artist is not one who is inspired, but one who inspires others." And it struck me that in my mere lifetime alone, I have been lucky enough to find that.

I began taking art lessons from Ms. Mary Ann Cox when I was in the fourth grade. She soon introduced me to excitingly foreign concepts like experiments with clay, the differentiation between mediums, and all the statement late-greats like Degas, Monet, and Van Gogh. Each week brought new ideas that previously had been unbeknownst. I loved every minute of it. In the fall, we made Halloween crafts while dancing along to spooky music. When she moved to a new house across town, she let us help paint the sink room. She always managed to come up with interesting subjects to draw, like the day we sketched our toes in charcoal, or the day we weren't allowed to pick our pencils up off the paper. It was a hoot!

Somewhere in between our lessons, I came to equate art with my respite. For an hour every Thursday, I could go inside her studio, and not think of a single stressful thing. I even met two of the very best people I could have ever been blessed to see. Chan, Sarah, and I were three peas in a pod. We were three people brought together under the same roof by a woman we couldn't love more.

While at art, Ms. Mary Ann would always revel in the amazing ability we had to all paint the same thing and yet have it turn out so differently. To me, that was art. Art was defined as three girls, a cup of brushes, and plates of acrylic paints covering canvases. It was construction paper scraps, the smell of permanent markers, and stained fingers. It was the one day I came in after a terrible day, broke down in tears, and wasn't judged for how I felt.

About one year ago, I came into art to see Chandler upset, and I knew something was amiss. After several attempts of getting her to look at me, she couldn't. After Sarah arrived, we got the message from Ms. Mary Ann- "I'm moving to Athens."

Athens. As in, not Tifton, Georgia, Athens.

As in, no art class, Athens.

As in, no Chan, Sarah, Kaycee, and Ms. Mary Ann, Athens.

As in, cue the heartbreak, Athens.

But, at the same time, we rejoiced with her. This was what she wanted, and something that we all knew she had needed for some time. Athens would give her more of a scene for her artwork, and we were ecstatic. She would be living in a town house with her cat, and she couldn't have been more excited. On our last day together, she gave us each a letter. Inside of mine, Ms. Mary Ann explained why she was going. She talked about watching me grow up, and she congratulated me on my upcoming high school graduation. She said how much she loved us. And oh, did I cry.

I cried selfishly. I cried for what I was losing, and the part of me that wanted to stay the little girl that I had originally been. I cried because I knew what I was going to be missing now, and it hurt. We all felt it.

But, the love that had once sent us to each other, also made us turn away. Even now, I drive by her old houses and I remember the amazing years I spent with my girls. I follow Ms. Mary Ann on Facebook, and I praise God for the person He made us.

And now, I give her my sincere gratitude. Ms. Mary Ann, thank you for your love of art that you shared with us and the best times we had. Thank you for letting me be my crazy, compassionate, brilliant self without criticism.

Again, I turn to the words of Salvador Dali: “At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since." But for me, instead of a cook, an illustrator. And at seven, an art teacher.

Huh. Imagine that.