It started a couple years ago, probably slipped into a conversation while pondering overpriced artwork or soaps or baskets at one of the random craft shows we used to frequent.

It followed us on shopping trips, while we balked over spending $80 on a pair of jeans with holes already in the knees and home to the study while we looked at knit scarves and patterns on the Internet.

“I could make that,” whispered while laughing into ears, sighed while we watched people cash in on projects, and hissed with indignation over those same jeans when they turned into studded shorts during summertime.

It followed us to thrift stores, art stores, and home improvement depots, as our house filled up with paints, canvases, wood, and fabric swatches—as project upon project flowed from fingertips and brains once they found their way into our lives.

Now we are spread out across a state and across an ocean, my mother, at home on the edge of Bucks and Montgomery County, my sister, at school in Barcelona, Spain, and me, in my dorm room in State College, all connected by our creativity and crazy desire to “make that.”

My mom shows me her knitting projects over video calls, while my sister hangs her art on walls and can boast over the fact that she has taken every one of my Facebook profile pictures.

So here is my contribution: straight from my dorm room.

“I could make that” and I will.