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Right from the moment I saw this piece of needlework, crumpled up in the bottom of a cardboard box at a Free-sale, I fell in love with it; irrationally, deeply in love.

All the women in my family created beautiful needlework—needlepoint, embroidery, crewel, tatting lace, Swedish embroidery; their art, unsigned and never recognized as such, brightened our walls, pillowcase edges and even hand towels. Anonymous was a woman for sure. So when I saw this lusciously colored, caringly executed crewel work discarded, unstretched, unmatted and unframed, by someone who failed to appreciate the artistry and craftsmanship that went into it, I scooped it up. I lucked out and also found a square frame, with a faded and water-stained mat at the same free sale.

Once home, I lovingly stretched the piece over the cardboard backing that came with the frame and masking taped the hell out of it. I re-painted the frame with some black acrylic, and a $1.50 jar of antique brass paint as gilding. I splurged $16 on a professionally cut, black, suede-like mat to show honor and respect to the piece.

Now, it hangs as an imaginal heirloom on my bedroom wall, blooming with the sunlight, gilded mat like a sundial marking the passing of time. Almost a year later, I’m still not bored of staring at it. I’m drawn in by the colors—corals and pinks and golds and oranges; it reminds me of the patterns on my grandmother’s lawn chair cushions from the ‘60s. These colors, offset by the black and gold framing, givingit a polished appearance even though it was rescued from a free pile, all coalesce to endear it to me even more.

Underneath the immediate upliftment I experience from the color and pattern is the subtle but ever-present reality that for the past two years, I’ve had a wall to call my own to hang an artwork on; that I’ve been safe (enough) to relax on my bed and look at this piece which brings me so much pleasure. My grandmother and mother are dead now, and I am estranged from the rest of my family—I, like this artwork, have been discarded by people who couldn’t appreciate the love and beauty in me.

When I became homeless, I couldn’t take much with me, least of all, large pieces of art. So this wool-threaded artwork is also a security blanket: a sign that, for now, I still have a roof over my head and a wall to hang a picture. That is in jeopardy once again, but I’ll spare you the details; for now I just want to be absorbed in this sunset colored woolen garden of delight.

—Beleszove Wildish Josivu Foldlanya