Was it time for the picture to be stretched back to its original shape? Whom could I possibly trust with it?
I’
m blessed to have a few family heirlooms in my possession; Blessed to have these tangible connections to my past, and blessed to want these connections. Of all the heirlooms I own, the most valuable, treasured, and protected is a needlepoint my mother designed and stitched in the early 1960s. I have hung it in every home I’ve lived in.
Inside the heavy mahogany frame, under glass and on an octagonal mat, lies a bouquet of roses: pink, blush, and magenta petals, olive and pear leaves with a touch of chartreuse. The background is white. Now it’s a grayish white. I can’t remember if it was ever anything else.
I’m not sure if these colors speak to me because they’re my taste, or because they’re so imprinted on my soul, but blush and olive might just be my favorite color combination.
Over the years, I noticed a change in the picture. My mother a”h poured so much of herself into this needlework, but she took one shortcut. The background stitches end where the canvas begins, and the canvas was beginning to show through. Was it time for the picture to be stretched back to its original shape? Whom could I possibly trust with it?
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