When we moved here, our oldest daughter was all but engaged. Rather than share one of the regular bedrooms with a sister, she chose to set up her temporary bedroom in one of the unfinished basement rooms, despite my protestations: “There might be spiders down there!” “It has no ceiling!” “The walls and floor are just bare concrete!” “It will be cold down there!” And because I knew she would soon be leaving, “It’s so far away!”

She bought a secondhand rug, moved in and made it hers. In the sparsest of surroundings she created a space that was the envy of her siblings. It was the most private of all the bedrooms, much quieter, and gave her a lot more space.

She also began to “decorate” it. Thoughts written in marker along the ceiling joists above her head began to appear. My favorite: “I burn one end of the candle for Saint George and the other end for the Dragon.” She decorated the walls with chalk — random hand-drawn pictures, scrawled thoughts and, after a while, a “to do” list of preparations for her wedding with “Done” eventually marked after each entry.

Shortly after she married and left, our youngest son claimed this basement “bedroom” for himself. He hauled his bed and dresser downstairs, installed a secondhand couch and added his own thoughts and artwork. My favorite: “Yes, you are unique. Just like everyone else.” His bedroom was the envy of his friends — the cool place to hang out. Even the dog preferred sleeping there.

All our kids eventually grew up, moved out and the basement sat quietly unfinished, collecting stuff and dust. Until now. Our growing flock of grandkids need a larger play space, and we want/need a bigger gathering place for this growing family. A new family room in the basement is in the making … which will cover up those cherished pictographs. Something needs to be done about that.

So I invite the grandkids over, open a big bucket of colored chalk sticks and invite this next generation to also make their mark. Once they get over the initial surprise that I am actually encouraging them to color on the walls, they go a little wild. By the time the chalks are worn down to nubs, the walls are a delightful, colorful gallery.

It seems a shame to cover this all up, from the bygone joist wisdom and wall sketches to the new additions of flowers, trees, bugs, birds, suns, cars, creatures, words and other creations. I take photos before the sheetrock hides it all.

I persuade my husband to sign his name next to mine, memorializing ourselves on a concrete wall behind sheetrock. Not much, but somehow it feels … eternal.

It’s human to want to leave our mark, to be remembered after we’re gone. We write in journals and take selfies and make videos of ourselves and erect headstones to say to the world, “I was here.”

It’s the reason for this new collection of messages and pictures. The grandkids made their mark. Even under all the sheetrock and paint, they will remember that. And find themselves made somehow infinite by it.

At least until some demolition person is left wondering, “Who is Saint George?”

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.