This charcoal portrait of Jesus stands on a wall in my office. My father drew in 1952 when he was in the early twenties. This picture makes me dream, awakens me pictures of my father in his life before parenthood, her life I never knew. This picture moves me because I imagine my father as a young, feisty, animated by a great appetite for life and a strong desire to make beautiful things.
I had the same age as my father or early twenties when I realized what
embroidered table. Fruit of long hours of work, this creation is collecting dust in my closet for years. From time to time, my husband asks me subtly, "Why you keep it? "
Good question.
To which I have no answer. Although it is
not particularly beautiful (witness, I did not hang on my walls), this table shows embroidery of a young girl I was and I'm not. First, I am no longer young. And I do not embroider well, not sew more, do more knitting. Worse yet, I balk when I do an edge of pants.
I am delighted to have on my wall charcoal portrait of my father.
So why do I feel ridiculous in the idea of keeping this Embroidered table for one day give to my daughters?
I imagine the scene, both of them laughing and saying: "I hope Mom does not expect what we hang on our walls this ugliness? ... "
Nostalgia is a strange bugs.
She captivates the mind while making us clutter our closets of old.
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