My father's sister is an artist. Her house is full of her artwork and her children's creations. My parents used to have some of her are they etchings? on the wall, too. Decades ago, my aunt and her friend produced children's books, and some were recently sent to us for my grandkids.
My only cousin in Israel, her eldest niece, has one of our aunt's pictures on her wall. A few years ago, when I noticed it I asked her how she got it.
"I want one too!"
"All you have to do is ask her. That's what I did."
Actually, in the end I didn't do that. During a recent visit to my parents, my mother showed me a box of framed pictures:
"Maybe you'd like to take some. I don't have room, and anyway, I'd love to move to a smaller place."
Guess what. Yes, you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to get it right. I found two pictures my aunt had done about sixty years ago. One was even signed with her maiden name, the same maiden name I once had.
I took down an enormous needlepoint, which had taken me years to finish. I had done a lot of that needlepoint when trekker was hospitalized after being hit by a small truck when he was riding his bike. He suffered a dislocated pelvis, and lots of cuts etc, and needed to be in traction for three weeks. After that physical therapy and even after being released, he was forbidden to sit and walk on the "bad" leg for a long time. Half the hospitalization was in Hadassa Ein Kerem and half in Alyn Children's Orthopedic. That was eighteen years ago, last summer.
So now, I have something else on the wall, something even older and not burdened/tainted by such awful memories.