Memories of Damascus


Once upon a time there was an old oriental town where one could amble in the cobbled streets and sip a Turkish coffee in a tiny shop. This town was called Damascus long, long before the devastating and tragic civil war changed it for ever. A relative of mine went oftentimes for business. He sat in the bazar with the merchants and traded cloth.




From that time I kept a treasure. A shimmering piece of brocade with flowers and birds woven with gold threads into the fabric in the deep blue and wine-red shades of oriental carpets. I had a seamstress of my choice make a simple evening dress lined with a piece of black fox fur I had inherited. This dress will never be out of fashion. The brocade is timeless but the memories linked to it are sad. 

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