The flowers in my wardrobe are a visual reminder of my roots

I am a proud, self-confident woman.

The flowers I have placed in my home, office, and classroom decorate my office and house and decorate the walls of my office.

My favourite flower, my favorite colour, my favourite colour and the colour I wear with it, are all a reflection of my upbringing.

I was born and raised in the state of North Carolina.

My family immigrated to the US from India and I was brought up in a rural town called Rockingham, North Carolina, by my maternal grandparents.

My grandmother was an immigrant and my grandfather was an Irish-American.

My mother came to the United States as a teenager and grew up in Chicago, Illinois.

My parents, who had separated at age 21, married at 19 and had two children.

My paternal grandmother, who was born in India, had a small business that she managed with her family in Rockingham.

I grew up with a big heart and a big smile.

At a very young age, I began learning to draw and write.

My earliest memories are of my mother giving me her old book The Book of Life by Robert W. Chambers, and I began to draw pictures of animals and plants.

I remember my mother saying, “When you finish, you can put this book on your shelf.”

She also used to make my drawings into letters.

I am fortunate that my family is from India.

As a child, I learned the art of painting and my grandmother encouraged me to pursue the craft.

I started working on a variety of projects and projects became more and more interesting to me.

My childhood in Rockhampton is a story of resilience, resilience and resilience.

My grandparents were a large, proud family.

My maternal grandfather was a carpenter who had a strong work ethic.

My father was a teacher who was known for his work ethic and love for his students.

My mom worked for the family as a housekeeper and housekeeper’s assistant.

My dad worked as a foreman and worked as an electrician.

I spent most of my time with my maternal grandmother at her house in Rockhurst.

My first real experience with art came when I was a toddler.

I painted my grandmother’s portrait.

The first painting I did was a painting of a small boy with a hat.

I did a little painting of myself with a stick, and then painted my mother and my sister’s portraits.

My sister and I, my mother’s family, had gone to visit my grandmother and were very excited to see how her painting looked on her wall.

I asked my mother if I could paint a picture of her, and she agreed to do it.

She had a big painting of her in her room.

I had the intention of painting a picture for my sister and myself.

I took a picture in my head of her painting, but I was unable to take the picture because of the humidity.

I knew that she had a painting on her walls and the humidity had got to her painting.

I didn’t realize that the painting on my walls was her painting that I had taken, but at that time, I was still a child.

My siblings and I all admired her painting and were jealous of her ability to paint.

I went to the painting studio one day and was so excited when I saw the picture that my mother had done.

I wanted to paint my own picture of my grandmother that I could take with me.

I thought that painting her would make me feel better and better.

When my mother finished her painting on the wall, I went back to the studio and asked her if I should paint a portrait of her.

She agreed to paint me.

We went into the studio to paint the portrait of my grandparents, and we took a photo together.

My grandfather’s portrait was so beautiful that I went with him to the bathroom.

We sat in the bathroom and talked about it.

My grandma was crying.

I said to her, “Do you think you are going to look like this?”

She said, “No, I want to look good.”

I thought, “Why not?”

So, we went into a studio and painted the picture.

The picture was so good that it made me feel good.

We started painting the portrait.

My little brother and I sat there on the floor, looking at the painting.

We took a photograph.

My brothers and sisters and I started to look at the photograph and thought, How can I look good when my grandmother has to sit in a toilet with her painting sitting on her door?

I did my best to look beautiful.

I would go to the mirror and put on a face paint and a smile.

I tried to do my best and try to be positive.

My brother and sisters would also look at me and say, “You look beautiful.”

I would smile and say that I am proud to be your mother and that I love you very much.

My youngest brother would also ask,

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