Until recently when I unearthed it and wondered what in the world to do with it. Sure, it had been my grandmother's, who was a seamstress when so many Eastern European Jewish immigrants earned their living that way. And I myself made skirts and dresses with it when I became a teenager and learned to sew. It's a beautifully designed and sturdy workhorse that still operates to this day. But there's precious little space for such objects in our small apartment, no matter how much history and meaning they're steeped in. Sadly I decided it had to go.
But I couldn't let it go without memorializing it in watercolor.
Then one of my sisters asked for the sewing machine. And my other sister asked for the painting.
I'll always have Paris.
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