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Brushes, jauntily arranged in jars like flowers.  Tubes of paint, waiting to contribute their hue to the palette.  The palette a modern day masterpiece.  Canvaslike material ready for a masterpiece to develop.  All, waiting for the time when she will paint.  Painstakingly, she will transfer the images depicted in postcards.  Risking her life as she licks the brushes. (never realizing she is poisoning herself from the lead in the paint)*  Her tapestries sell...  Providing food for the family.  Many others in the city, stand in food lines or go hungry.  It is the era of what will be known as "The Depression".  Seventy years later her grandson hangs a tapestry in his apartment.  The place is home, for she is there.  Even in death she lives through her tapestry. copyright© 2001 * It was common for an artist to twist a brush in the mouth to form a point. Please email me for permission to use this poem: myoriah@hotmail.com